A Papa Bear of His Very Own BY JORDRE
by Jake Crepeau
Summary: We all know how the war really ended, but what if the Germans had succeeded in assassinating Hitler...and won the war? Book 1 of "Hogan and the General." Rated T for some mild language.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer:**_Aw, come on, we all know the drill by now. We don't own anything… If wishes were horses, we'd have a herd! Enjoy!

**A Papa Bear of His Very Own**

**by Jordre**

**Foreword**

Like most works of literature, this tale began with a "what if:" What might have happened to Hogan's Heroes and the Rat Patrol if America had never entered World War II?

Simple, you say: The Heroes and the Rats would have stayed home.

But would they? It's historical fact that many men rushed to England after the _blitzkrieg_ and joined the English forces; Sam Troy's brother was one of them. So our premise became this: Hogan, Kinch, and Baker were in the RAF instead of the Army Air Corps, and Troy, Tully, and Hitch were in the UK army. The rest is explained in the Introduction.

A few notes: Dialogue in German is indicated by « and »; in such dialogue, all nouns are capitalized as in proper written German. Actual German appears only in short statements, or when a German character's English is less than fluent and his speech sometimes lapses back into German. Please forgive all errors in our German; we're trying (very).

All code names are rendered in all caps as per Intelligence usage; eg, Hogan is PAPA BEAR; Marie Louise Monet is TIGER, etc.

And, yes, this is a long _spiel_ before we actually get into the story, but it's necessary. Trust us. (hehehehe)

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**Introduction**

After World War I, Americans were tired of war, and popular sentiment was to leave Europe to its own problems. Europe's increasing militarization, and, in particular, Hitler's rise to power and subsequent activities in Germany, moved the isolationist US to pass a neutrality act, which forbade the sale of arms to any aggressive country.

Some Americans, however, were increasingly concerned by the potential threat posed by events in Germany, though they were very much a minority among a people whose main concern was surviving the Great Depression.

The divergence begins in 1939, three days after the _blitzkrieg_ swept into Poland. On his September 3 Fireside Chat, President Roosevelt said, "This nation will remain a neutral nation, _and I ask that every American abide by this decision." _This statement prompted Congress to present a bill to this effect, expanding the arms embargo to include assistance by any individual or group. The lobbying efforts of Charles Lindbergh and his America First Committee played a key role in the passage of this bill, even as young Americans flocked to England to enlist in the British military. This new Neutrality Act was signed into law in October, and those who had enlisted in foreign military services were ordered to return home, an order which was largely ignored. A number of those volunteers went so far as to renounce their American citizenship and become British citizens instead.

In 1941, Hitler began to consider declaring war on the US. German High Command knew that this would mean defeat for Germany, so they threw in their lot with the growing anti-Hitler movement and, in a second departure from "our" history, succeeded in killing the _Fuhrer_ in November of 1941. They followed this by purging the Gestapo and SS of their more fanatic and sadistic elements. They also repealed the Gestapo Law with its infamous proviso, "Neither the instructions nor the affairs of the Gestapo will be open to review by the administrative courts," placing the Gestapo once more under the same rule of law as the rest of the country.

The third major change was the end of the Holocaust. Since the atrocities against the Jews had been precipitated in the name of crimes they had supposedly committed, it was declared that the "guilty parties" had all been removed from circulation, and those Jews still at large were to be left unmolested. Those still behind the wire received medical attention and better food, and were slowly reintegrated into society.

A fourth divergence occurred in the course of the Sino-Asian War. Japan initially won decisive victories against the largely rural, provincial Chinese, sweeping as far west as Inner Mongolia. Instead of leaving the Chinese to their fate, however, Stalin opted to protect his own eastern border by entering that fray on the side of the Chinese. This had the dual effect of weakening the Soviets' western border, turning the tide of that battle in favor of the Germans, and engaging the Japanese far too thoroughly for them even to consider invading Pearl Harbor. As a result, the US never entered the war.

The end result of these and several other, smaller divergences, was that England, forced to admit defeat, surrendered to Germany in October of 1942. Germany's battle against Russia had drawn to a stalemate, and a truce was called in November; a peace treaty was subsequently negotiated, and signed in January of 1943. This enabled the Soviets to turn their full attention to the Sino-Asian war, and the combined Soviet and Chinese forces succeeded in driving Japan completely out of China by the end of that year. Japan might again become a threat in the future, but for now the Empire of the Sun seemed content to consolidate its victories in the Pacific.

(1) Actual text was "but I cannot ask that every American remain neutral in thought as well."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

_**September 30, 1942, mid-afternoon; London:**_

Colonel John Wimbley accepted the envelope from the courier, but, before he could open it, the phone rang. "It's over, John," came the tired voice of his commander. "I've just got word; surrender will take place at 0900 tomorrow morning. Implement contingency plans immediately."

"Yes, sir." His hand shook as he hung up the phone. As he reached for the intercom, his glance fell on the momentarily forgotten envelope, stamped "urgent" multiple times as if for emphasis, and he paused a moment to peruse its contents. Then, with a sigh, he ignored the intercom and instead went to the outer office, where men and women bustled about, the great computer's little white lights resembling an anaemic Christmas decoration in the background. He called for attention in his best parade-ground voice, and all human activity ceased.

"Ladies and gentlemen, our high command is admitting defeat," he said quietly. "Shut down the computer; destroy all printouts. Shut down all communications at once."

"What about our agents in the field?" one woman asked.

"Shut down all communications _at once,_" Wimbley repeated unhappily. "I'm sorry, but those are the orders."

"Well, ain't that just ducky," Mavis Newkirk muttered under her breath, reverting to her Cockney accent momentarily, and had the grace to look at least a little embarrassed when the remark carried farther than she had intended. "What about the files, sir?" she asked then.

"Leave them," Wimbley said, then stopped He'd be _damned_ if he'd just throw his best field agents to the wolves without trying to do _something_ to protect them! "Except the PAPA BEAR files; pull them and bring them to me."

_**Same time, Stalag 13**_

The sun was slowly heading toward the west when the big black staff car ghosted through the opened front gate, followed closely by a large covered military truck. Loafing prisoners watched them come to a stop outside the _Kommandantur,_ evincing nothing but bored, idle curiosity in all but the tall, lean man who'd been lounging beside the doorway to _Barracke_ 2. Casually, he now pushed away from the wall, exaggerating a shiver, and headed inside as fast as possible while appearing not to hurry at all. It was an art-form, the ability to be _so_ casual, and Carter was a master at it. He'd had enough practice, he thought with a quiet chuckle. "Hey, Colonel? Staff car just came in," he called as the door banged shut behind him. He shivered again, for it wasn't any warmer inside the barracks; it was just that the majority of the chilly autumn breeze was missing.

From within a private room at the end of the barracks came a handsome, black-haired man, his dark eyes stirring with curiosity. "Who is it, Carter?" he asked as he joined his man near the door.

"Don't know; some general," came the excited reply. "He's got an aide with him, and a big truck full of something important, Colonel; four guards jumped out when they stopped and took up posts around it."

Hogan watched as the newcomers followed Klink toward his office, but did not wait for them to mount the steps; he immediately whirled and headed to his private quarters, his "staff" hard on his heels.

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General Friedrich Sebastian Mannheim took a deep breath as his staff car eased to a silent stop. Somehow he managed to control his grimace of distaste as the _Kommandant,_ one _Oberst_ Wilhelm Klink, bustled out of his office and down the steps, groveling gratuitously even before Lt. Weber could get his superior's door open. «Ah, _Herr General,_ how nice it is to see you! Welcome to Stalag 13! What can I do for you?» Klink gushed as his visitor exited the car.

Mannheim just handed off his briefcase to his aide and headed for the office steps, Klink bowing and scraping in his wake.

«Won't you have a Seat, General? Some Brandy, perhaps? A Cigar?» Klink kept up the flow even in the office, watching in open nervousness as his visitor stopped before the leather-topped desk.

«Colonel, I am General Mannheim, of the Inspector General's Office,» the stranger said officiously. This was obviously the only way he'd get this blithering idiot to shut up---and it worked. Manheim gave a silent prayer of thanks that at least this bit of information was correct. He reached into his coat's inner pocket, withdrawing a packet of documents. «My Papers and Orders,» he announced, passing them to the momentarily silent colonel.

He did not give Klink time to look them over, retrieving them from the _Kommandant's_ limp grasp almost immediately. Instead, he pasted a forced smile on his face and began to butter up the fatuous fool. «Klink, we've heard very good things about you lately, even in Berlin...»

«Yes, _Herr General,»_ Klink interrupted eagerly. «This is the toughest POW Camp in Germany. We've never had a successful Escape from Stalag 13. My Prisoners don't stand a Chance...»

«Klink, _shut up!_» Mannheim snapped in irritation, then gathered his composure again and continued. He _had_ been warned about the man, after all**. **«As I was saying,»he paused to glare at the balding man before him as if daring him to interrupt again, «we have heard good Things about you and your Camp. I have come to see for myself. Should even half of what I've heard prove to be true...well, there's no telling how far you will go.» _Like to the Eastern Front,_ he thought grimly, showing nothing of this thought on his face.

«I can assure the General,» Klink began, falling silent at his visitor's threatening scowl.

«I would like a Tour of the Camp, Klink,» Manheim calmly announced, «But first I would like to see your Prisoners. Call a Formation, if you would be so good.»

«Certainly, _Herr General,»_ Klink agreed eagerly_. "Shuuuuultz!"_ he bellowed for his sergeant of the guard.

_"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant?"_ the portly sergeant responded, coming into the office with such alacrity that it was obvious the man had been trying to listen at the door. But he came to a creditable attention in front of the visitors, so Mannheim just hid another sigh. So far, this place was living up to its reputation fully. Most unfortunately...or not.

«Schultz, have the Prisoners fall out for a special Roll Call,» Klink was ordering, one eye carefully on the visiting General. He _so_ wanted to make a good impression. If only Hogan and his men would behave themselves, perhaps he would get his long-coveted promotion. Imagine..._General Klink._

Klink's rosy vision for his future suddenly turned gray at Schultz's protest. «But, _Herr Kommandant,_ we just had Roll Call two Hours ago.»

«Call. Another. One.» the colonel ground out between clenched teeth, his balled fists resting on his desk as he leaned threateningly toward his hesitant sergeant.

_"Jawohl, Herr Kommandant!"_ Schultz replied and headed for the door. Very faintly, Mannheim could hear the corpulent sergeant muttering, «Colonel Hogan is _not_ going to like this,» as the door shut behind him.

Klink looked over at General Mannheim and laughed nervously; he looked as though he were going to say something, but apparently thought better of it. After a last deep breath for control, he motioned toward the door. «After you, _Herr General,»_ he said, stepping back to allow his illustrious visitor to precede him.

The general went, for he could hear the guards rousting the prisoners from their barracks; he could also clearly hear the protests and complaints of said prisoners. ("Aw, c'mon, Schultzie, we just _'ad_ roll call!" from one distinctly Cockney-accented man, and "Pipe down; it's just another dog-and-pony show," from another, whose accent was clearly American.) Mannheim supposed that he didn't really blame them, for the afternoon breeze was quite brisk, billowing his greatcoat around his lower legs. The assembling prisoners were not so warmly dressed; they shivered and shifted as their formations filled in. He watched the guards make their counts as he stood on the front porch of the _Kommandantur,_ partially shielded from the wind.

The American colonel rocked on his heels as he waited in the front row of Barracks 2's formation. As he'd suggested, it was indeed another of Klink's dog-and-pony shows, put on for the benefit of the visiting general. They hadn't heard much from the bug in Klink's office; no hint of why this high-ranking officer might be interested in their humble little Stalag. He seriously doubted that _anyone_ on the general staff would be interested in or impressed by Klink, except maybe by his stupidity and overweening conceit. No, Hogan mused; it was more likely to have something to do with whatever was in that truck. They'd have to think of some way to look inside later. The posted guards had kept his men well away from it so far.

Mannheim strolled casually from group to group, watching the prisoners, evaluating. Most appeared bored, totally uninterested in him. There were some outstanding exceptions, though. There was at least one man in each barracks group who watched his progress closely, although they tried to disguise the fact. And the small group of men who stood the closest to...Hogan, the name tag on his leather jacket read...yes; those would be _his_ men. They were rowdy and disruptive, just the sort of behavior to distract someone like Klink, or Schultz-the-sergeant. But there was too much calculation in their eyes as they acted like fools. No, those men knew _exactly_ what they were doing.

How ironic, he thought in amusement, that the little sadist Hochstetter could have been correct about Hogan and his men, but never able to prove it. Still, the SS and Gestapo were totally discredited now, most of their members already tried and convicted as war criminals. Both groups had fallen out of power after Hitler's assassination, later to be disbanded, and Germany had been the better for it. All that remained for those _people_ were their executions, to be carried out once the war was over.

He turned to look at Klink. «I will interview some of these Men, Colonel. You will have the ones I pick wait in your Office for me.» He turned back, taking Klink's compliance for granted. Several men were selected from various barracks, including one from _Barracke_ 2. Most were random choices, all except the British corporal from _Barracke_ 17. That one Mannheim looked forward to speaking with. This pleasure he could not yet permit himself, however; he could not risk the fox's slipping away.

Hogan watched the Germans' antics with mocking amusement on his handsome face. Soon, he knew, Klink would send for him, to show this general how thoroughly cowed the prisoners were, and he would act like a tame prisoner, the degree of his insolence being determined by how much of a jerk he felt the general to be once he'd spoken to him personally. It was the same old game that he'd played almost since he'd been shot down and captured two and a half years ago. He stepped forward with the rest, not even wondering why this general wanted all the formations to step forward three paces.

Then the world fell apart. Out of that guarded truck jumped soldiers, who took up positions between the prisoners and their barracks. All the men from Barracks 2 were herded over to that truck, and manacles were placed on them even as three more large trucks rolled into camp. More soldiers climbed out of these, and Hogan and his men were loaded into two of them, to be taken to the holding cells beneath the old Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg.

Mannheim smiled, a grim little smile of satisfaction as he watched the first two trucks roll out of camp. He turned back to the other stunned prisoners, studying them most carefully before beginning to speak. "You will all, no doubt, be pleased to hear that the war in the West is over. The allies will be officially surrendering tomorrow morning at 0900. Soon you will be sent home, you British and French. Only on the Eastern Front is there still fighting, but the Russians are being pushed steadily back.

"You will be allowed to listen to the official broadcast from the BBC over the camp loudspeakers tomorrow. Until your official release, however, you still remain prisoners of war, so make no mistake in this regard: Even at this late date, any attempts to escape will be dealt with severely, up to and including possibly being shot. I strongly recommend patience on your parts, for just a little longer.

"You will be allowed back into your barracks once I have spoken to the men I have chosen. Be aware that my troops are _not_ the 'tame' guards that you are used to. Do not antagonize them, and you will safely regain your barracks." With that, Mannheim turned on his heel and re-entered the _Kommandantur_, with Lt. Weber following into Klink's office. One by one, he had the men he'd singled out brought to him there, asking each man questions read directly from a list that he'd left lying on the desk in plain sight. He kept his amusement hidden as he watched several of those men study the list, clearly reading the German although it was upside down to them and in the peculiar zig-zag script that most of the Allies found nearly indecipherable. He could tell which ones actually understood what was written there, for they relaxed by the third question on the list, having read what questions were coming. This suited him well, for these men were but the smokescreen, covering the identity of his mole.

Third from last, the man from Barracks 17 was brought in, the British corporal known in the camp as Baker. He came to attention in the British style, saluting the superior officer before him, not relaxing at all...until the door closed behind the escorting guard. Then his manner changed radically.

«Hauptmann Bachmann reporting, Herr General_,_» he snapped out quietly, his salute precise.

Mannheim looked at the young _Abwehr_ captain before him with approval. «At ease, Captain; be seated.»

_"Danke, Herr General,"_ the Intelligence officer replied, sitting as requested. He did not relax totally; that would not have been proper, and Horst Bachmann was a _very _proper young officer.

«You seem to have survived, Captain,» Mannheim said, his voice kept low. «Were you able to learn much?»

Bachmann allowed himself a small smile of triumph. _«Jawohl, Herr General._ Here is a List, with the Names of most of the Barracks Chiefs,» he said, passing over a small, many-times-folded piece of paper. «You will also want to take a Medic, a Sergeant Joe Wilson, for he had knowledge of the Operations, even thought he did not actively participate in any Raids. He _did_ repair and cover up all Damage sustained by the Commandos, but reported nothing to the Authorities.

«Most of the rest of those actively engaged in Espionage and Sabotage were housed in _Barracke_ 2, especially Sergeants Carter, Baker, and Kinchloe, and Corporals LeBeau and Newkirk. There are others; I have included them on the List also.»

«You have done very well, Hauptmann; a difficult Assignment, and so short a Time to accomplish it. »

«Once they accepted me, Herr General, it was easy; they showed me everything accessible to the general Camp Population. I did not try to penetrate their inner Organization, as my Orders said not to do so. It was just as well, for they were very suspicious. My Cover could easily have been blown, had I tried for too much.»

_"Ja," _Mannheim agreed soberly. «This has happened many times in the past, here. Our Agents were always discovered when they got too close to the central Leadership. It was more important to learn the Extent of the Complicity of the rest this Time.

«But you cannot stay here longer. Here is the List of Questions which you were asked, like all the rest. You will be removed in a Day or so. Or do you believe yourself to be compromised and to need immediate retrieval?»

The young _Abwehr_ captain actually gave this some thought as he looked over the question list. Finally, he shook his head. «I think I should be all right for several more Days. I've managed the last three Weeks, after all,» he responded, his voice and eyes steady.

«True, true,»the general murmured, but he paused, then grinned. _«Nein,_ I believe we will take you out when we take out Wilson and the others on your List. That should be enough Cover, in case we need to use you here again.

«Very well, Captain; you are dismissed.» Then General Mannheim's aide opened the door, calling for the guard to remove this prisoner and bring in the next.

At last he'd spoken to each and had had all the men returned to their formations. He stopped then, studying the heavily shivering men who still stood out in the cold. Again a chill smile showed on his face. "Each of you known as a 'barracks chief' will step out from your formations, away from the rest of your men," Mannheim ordered and watched as fear crossed many faces.

Prisoners looked at each other with rapidly growing concern, but what else could they do? Evacuation was out of the question, with their access to the barracks, and the tunnel entrances within, blocked. The men could only watch helplessly as their barracks chiefs, the men responsible for them, for keeping order and reporting problems, slowly stepped forward, clearly expecting to be shot down. Nothing happened, however, except that the general's young lieutenant rapidly went to each man and wrote down his name. This list was checked against another---wonder where _that_ came from---then was shown to the general, who nodded and looked pleased.

"Very good. You men will go with the guards," the general ordered, motioning them towards the last two trucks. "The following men will step forward also and join your comrades by the transports."

Silence. Dead silence then, except for the German's voice reading off names from his list. Without Hogan there to speak up or protest, no one else dared say a thing, lest he be added to that list. The men named moved forward, zombie-like, counting themselves already dead. They went only because they felt they had no choice.

"General, you can't _do_ this!" Klink protested, breaking through his own shock at last.

"Klink, be silent before you join them." There was no room for further argument in Mannheim's voice, no warmth, no compassion. He watched, a statue in a fluttering greatcoat as these prisoners were also manacled and loaded into the trucks. The extra troops were withdrawn and climbed into the carriers. Then, at last, the formations of chilled men were dismissed.

Mannheim looked at the very subdued _Kommandant_ and sniffed in disgust. «Come with me, Klink,» he ordered, then turned and headed back to the warmth of the building. He glared at the older man, once they were back in the privacy of the office.

«Klink, you've managed to survive this War; don't push your Luck now. There has been an Underground Unit flourishing here for Years, under your very Nose. We have reliable Information that it was headed by your Colonel Hogan; I need not explain any further to _you._

«Here are your Discharge Papers; you are being mustered out with full Retirement Pay. You are being given the Benefit of the Doubt, and it is being assumed by High Command that you had no Idea what was going on here. Even though you _should_ have known. Your Relief, a Major Grüber, will be arriving Tomorrow with Orders from Berlin. See that you are packed and ready to go. Take Sergeant Schultz with you; you will find his Honorable Discharge Papers in the Folder with your own.

«That will be all. Dismissed!» He passed off the fat envelope to the poleaxed Colonel Klink, then strode out of the office and outside to his waiting staff car. It had been a long day; he looked forward to a quiet evening and a good meal back in Hammelburg. Tomorrow would, after all, come way too soon.

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Hogan, Robert E., Colonel, US Army Air Corps...or it should have been. Instead, it was Group Leader, RAF, since the United States had never entered the war against Nazi Germany. He still stubbornly thought of himself as an American colonel, however, being a true son of the US of A, an illusion helped along by the American gear he was allowed to wear when flying, as he commanded a unit made up entirely of Americans. The young colonel shook his head once more. He wished he could figure out what was going on, but nothing was making any sense. He hadn't had any dealings with the _Abwehr _before this; he'd been worked over only by the SS and Gestapo, and that only in the early years of his captivity. Once they had been disbanded, he'd faced no further strong-arm interrogations. Still, this made no sense at all.

The prisoners had been unloaded outside of the old Gestapo headquarters in Hammelburg; there had been no doubt of that. He knew only too well what _that_ place looked like, both inside and out. They had brought him, and all the rest of the men from Barracks 2, inside and down to the holding area, but, surprisingly, they had been no rougher than necessary. The strip-search to which they'd then been subjected had come as no big surprise, but then they had been allowed to dress again, albeit minus belts, ties, and shoelaces, and then they'd been locked into cells. He'd thought he'd heard a second group coming in similarly, not long after they'd been processed.

Meals had come regularly and had been adequate---or at least no worse than the food at Stalag 13. Hogan guessed that they'd been there, unmolested, for at least four weeks.

They'd heard a broadcast that the war was over, that the Allies had surrendered to the "victorious German forces." And _that_ had been over the BBC, shockingly enough. But the worst shock had come only last night: the announcement, sent from the United States via recording, that all Americans who had fought for the English and other Allies had been stripped of their citizenship and declared to be criminals. They would not be allowed to come back to the States, even if the Germans were willing to repatriate them. They no longer had a home to return to. This meant that the Germans had been given free rein to slaughter them all as war criminals. But still no one had come near them except to bring their meals.

A door clanged open far down the hallway. Numerous sets of jackboots echoed in step, drawing closer and closer. Hogan knew that his cell was farthest from the exit, no doubt to keep him more securely. Idly he wondered yet again who had informed on him. It could have been anyone; many former Underground fighters knew who he was, of the double life he'd led.

The Underground had been giving them less and less support ever since the SS and Gestapo had been disbanded. They had all been loyal Germans, after all, fighting only against Hitler. Once he had been assassinated by the High Command, the Underground had ceased all sabotage and espionage operations. The only thing they had still helped Hogan and his men to accomplish was to aid downed flyers and escaped prisoners back to England. Even that had gotten harder, Hogan admitted in belated realization, almost as if his former partisan allies had begun hindering his efforts, instead of helping.

The boots stopped outside his cell; a key rattled in the lock. Hogan moved to the back of the cell as the door swung open, not wanting any trigger-happy guard "accidentally" shooting him for being too close. Two guards entered, stepping to either side to clear the doorway, while a third covered Hogan with a machine pistol. Resistance was futile, so he allowed his wrists to be cuffed behind his back and docilely accompanied the guards out of the cell and down the corridor. As he went, he could hear the cell next to his being opened, and guards entering. Thankfully, he heard no gunfire.

They brought him to a different wing, this one containing larger group cells. He was stood against the solid wall across from one such large cell, where he felt an additional cuff being locked onto one wrist, holding him securely in place. Sick at heart, he looked over the men imprisoned in the cell he faced: all the barracks chiefs from Stalag 13. The cell beside that held most of the men from Barracks 2, and others who had assisted with their various operations. But some were missing---No, here came Newkirk, firmly in the grip of guards, to be chained to the wall beside him. This looked very bad, Hogan thought, feeling sicker still as first Baker, then Carter and LeBeau, and finally Kinch were brought up to join him at the wall.

No one spoke; they all knew that talking among themselves would not be allowed. This was serious, unlike the formations back at camp. Hogan sensed that their lives would hinge upon what happened here next. The wrong wisecrack now could easily get his men killed, and that was to be avoided if at all possible.

Time dragged as they waited in that corridor. Hogan made no attempt to guess just how long they stood there like that, but finally he could hear several other sets of footsteps approaching.

Mannheim paced down the corridor, face grim, Lt. Weber at his heels. He'd given Hogan and his men plenty of time to worry, he felt. Now, if the American colonel would only be sensible. They still hadn't found the center of his operations, but he'd gotten signed statements from former Underground members identifying Hogan and his "inner circle" as the men who'd plagued the area, who'd caused so much destruction and confusion. They had identified photographs, even if they hadn't always known the names of the men pictured. It would be easy enough now to put all of them before a firing squad, if not within the hangman's noose.

But what a waste of genius that would be.

He got his hopes, and his face, under firm control before entering that last corridor and coming face to face with Hogan.

It was harder than he'd expected, keeping his smart mouth shut, Hogan found as he was faced with the general he'd last seen at Stalag 13. _Is he to be my personal nemesis?_ he wondered as the man stood and studied him intently. Hogan could feel his nerves drawing tighter even as the German gave a small, tight smile and nodded his head briefly, as if he'd confirmed something he'd only suspected up until then.

"Ah, Colonel Hogan," Mannheim purred. "How nice of you and your men to join us. I have a few---a _very_ few---questions for you that it would be to your advantage to answer as quickly and completely as possible.

"How many of you here were actively engaged against the Third Reich while technically prisoners of war?"

Hogan gaped at the general. Surely he didn't really expect an answer to that question! Not after all the pain and misery the Gestapo, in the person of Major Hochstetter, had put him and his men through.

"Come, come, Colonel," Mannheim prodded, his voice still maintaining a pleasant, conversational tone. "I have depositions, sworn to by reliable witnesses, that name you and various of your men specifically. I would hate to execute men whose only crime was to remain silent while you and yours pursued your own private war."

"General, I…" Hogan began, only to be stopped by the German's upraised hand.

"Please, Colonel Hogan. No protestations of ignorance or innocence. I truly have no desire to punish the mostly innocent. I will be satisfied with the names of your innermost circle, those who actively engaged in sabotage. The forgers, makers of uniforms---that sort of thing, _all_ prisoners try to do, in order to escape. I do not hold those activities against them. The war is over, after all. I believe that I have most of them already, so you won't be betraying your loyal men.

"If you don't confess, I will have all the men remaining at Stalag 13 shot, for you will have left me with little choice. You do need to be aware that many identifications have been made based on photographs of your men, so you should not try to leave any of the guilty out.

"You may have a few moments to think it over. Be aware that once I issue execution orders, I will not revoke them should you have second thoughts." Mannheim paused then, allowing time for Hogan to think, as promised.

He was about to speak again, to ask for confessions one last time, when rapidly approaching footsteps caught his attention. One of his staff sergeants burst into the hallway, a dispatch clutched in one hand. Despite the man's obvious excitement, he stopped long enough to come to attention and salute his general with precision, then hurried over to whisper in Mannheim's ear.

«Ah, truly? _Sehr gut!_» the general exclaimed in open pleasure. «Have Pictures taken; we will wait for the developed Photographs before continuing here. Tell them I will be there personally as soon as possible.»

"Colonel Hogan," he announced, looking at his captives once more, now wearing a large smile. "You will be interested to learn that my men have found your tunnel system, and all the…equipment…that it contained. Most ingenious, I am told. If I had needed further proof, which I did not, I have it now. Consider carefully, Colonel. We will talk later." Then Mannheim left, withdrawing all his men so that his captives could talk among themselves at last.

The uproar in the hall was incredible. Hogan could only stand there in shock at first, at a total loss for the first time since he'd started operations at Stalag 13. Only Newkirk's voice rising above the rest shook him out of it.

"Well, an' don't _that_ just tie it!" the British corporal snarled, his Cockney accent distinctive.

It was all the stimulation Hogan needed. "Okay, pipe down!" he snapped, his voice decisive now. "This isn't going to help us at all." He looked around at the panicked faces of his men. "We'll wait and see if they really did find the tunnels before we do anything else. And if they have, I'll take the fall for the rest of you…"

Again he was drowned out, this time by their protests and objections. "That's enough!" he yelled, fighting to be heard above their voices. "We always knew this could happen," Hogan insisted once the others had quieted a little. "It's my _job_ to take the blame, just like I was the one responsible for giving the orders."

"Beggin' th' Colonel's pardon," Newkirk cut in, "but you seem t' be forgettin' that we're all bloody volunteers 'ere."

"I'm not forgetting anything," Hogan snapped back before the uproar could start again. "The only thing most of you volunteered for was to stay in camp as cover for us, to support the 'no escapes' policy. I'm not about to let you face a firing squad for that."

"Colonel, these Germans aren't stupid," Kinchloe commented in his deep, quiet voice. "They'll know good and well that you had help. No way you could have done all that by yourself. You heard what the General said: He has witnesses for you _and_ _others_. If you try to protect us, you'll condemn everyone."

_"Oui,_ _mon Colonel,_" LeBeau put in. "You will 'ave to let us go down with you. You can only fool _le Boche_ so far."

Hogan prepared one last protest, but he never uttered it. They were right. He only had to look around at the men held there to know it. All his barracks-chiefs, Wilson, Olsen, and the others from Barracks 2…His entire organization was there. There was not a single innocent man down there in those cells, or chained to the wall…except one. "Who're you?" he asked, nodding towards a British corporal being held in the cells with the barracks chiefs.

"Corporal Gerald Baker, RAF, sir," the man replied, looking as nervous and unhappy as all the rest.

"You don't belong here, Corporal," Hogan said, his eyes going thoughtful. "I don't think I know you…"

"He's been in wi' my lot, sir," Brockington, chief of Barracks 17, said. "Came in about six, seven weeks ago. Said he were shot down in that raid o'er Munich, the freight yards, y'know? Quiet chap."

"Hmmm. Right," Hogan finally said. "Still, you don't belong with this group. I'll see that _you_ get out of here, at least, Corporal."

"I'd appreciate that, sir," Corporal Baker said, a good bit of relief now to be heard in his voice. Inside, the mole's respect for this man Hogan grew, that he would actually worry about someone he felt to be innocent while his own world was crashing down around his head.

"Colonel, you're gonna have to tell him about us," a quiet, high tenor said. "It's the only thing you _can_ do. After all, 'Honesty is the best policy,' as my third-grade teacher, Miss Pruitt, always said. She said…"

_"Andrew!"_ the others chorused, silencing the young American, who had the grace to blush slightly. Somehow he always managed to get carried away.

"He's right, though, Colonel. You're going to have to give us up, or all the rest will suffer for it." Again, Kinchloe, giving good, if unwelcome, advice. _My conscience,_ Hogan thought dryly.

"All right," the colonel sighed, feeling defeated at last, then looking at each of his men in turn. "Anyone _not_ willing to be turned in, tell me now. Otherwise, I'll be admitting to the following…"

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

Incredible. Absolutely incredible, Mannheim thought to himself. It was no wonder that idiot Klink had had no idea that all of this was here, under his very nose, and no wonder that even the obnoxiously obsessive Hochstetter had never been able to find proof. Slowly the general prowled through the now-exposed tunnels, nearly in shock at each new revelation:

A full wardrobe and tailoring department, with uniforms for every branch of German service, all ranks. The SS and Gestapo uniforms bore a heavy coat of dust, not having been needed in a good long time.

A fully equipped darkroom, with pictures still hanging where they'd been left to dry.

A complete armory, American (!), British, French, and German weapons included.

A printing press and plates, very good ones, for German currency.

A fully, if primitively, equipped laboratory, and explosives ready to be used.

Maps of Germany, with tactical targets clearly marked.

A radio transmitter and receiver.

Travel rations, and stocks of other foodstuffs.

Temporary barracks facilities for up to 15 men, empty now.

Medical supplies, including British-labeled penicillin.

And at _least_ six miles of tunnels, with entrances concealed all over the camp, into nearly every building _and_ several outside the wire itself, complete with periscopes to check out the areas surrounding the outside before opening the exits.

Incredible. And all discovered quite by accident. Mannheim could only shake his head and wonder at the luck---_his­_ luck. Oh, yes, he had Hogan now. The pictures were being developed as he explored down here himself. The Underground informants hadn't even hinted at all of this, no doubt out of a remaining sense of loyalty towards the men who had risked so much to aid their fight against Hitler and his monsters. That, he could even understand. But for all of this to have been created by mere airmen---no, Hogan had to have been more than that, more than just a pilot before the war. This was way too professional a setup for _that,_ no matter how much help he had had. And it would probably never have been found if Mannheim hadn't had Klink replaced by that animal, Major Grüber.

Grüber had not been his choice, but had been recommended by Berlin as a tough _Kommandant,_ just what was needed to regain and keep control of the prisoners until most could be repatriated. He had been, until then, the _Kommandant_ of Stalag 8, a nearby camp for Army personnel, mostly British and Americans, and was said to tolerate no infractions of discipline. Escapees were dealt with very harshly, as were other malefactors. _That_ was what had been known, and told to Mannheim.

What the general only recently had learned, however, was that the major was a sadistic brute who would have happily just shot all of his prisoners at the slightest excuse. Rejected by the SS in its early days, when it was still an elite unit and not yet the pack of bullies it had later become, he had tried to emulate them in the hopes of still being selected, until they had been discredited and disbanded. Now Grüber ran his _stalag_ like a concentration camp, keeping the prisoners on starvation rations, giving excessive cooler time as punishment, along with floggings and no medical attention at all. None of this had been discovered until he'd been at Stalag 13 for four full weeks.

In that short time, the camp had become unlivable. Lice, always a problem under such conditions of dirt, cold, and overcrowding, had nearly overrun the camp. Even the guards were infested with them.

General Mannheim had been warned about Grüber by the commander of a nearby _Heer_ base, who had transferred a workforce of 50 of the sickest men from Stalag 8, working with that camp's adjutant behind Grüber's back. Mannheim had thus made a surprise inspection first of Stalag 8; then, concerned, of Stalag 13. The change had been unbelievable. He had had Grüber arrested at once; then had looked to see what could be done for the men.

Delousing, certainly, followed by hot showers, clean clothes, and food, but the barracks themselves had been so infested by that time that the only thing left had been to burn them. All the men had been transported to the now-nearly-empty Stalag 16, then the first barracks building at Stalag 13 had been put to the torch.

And the first tunnel entrance had been exposed.

They had found the other entrances by following the tunnel branches to their ends. Pictures had been taken of each exit, both open and closed, and carefully labeled as to which building each had been found in. The only one missing was the one from Barracks 5, the building that had been burned. Somehow, the general doubted that that would make any difference, since he had a photo of the dark hole going down from the charred remains. The ladder, miraculously, had not burned with the rest.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

Hours had passed, and Hogan and his men were tired now, and thirsty. They had been forced to stand, for the chains that secured them to the wall were too short to allow them to sit. They were too far from the cells' bars for the men confined therein to give them any water, which was probably just as well, Hogan thought wryly: There was no one to take them on a latrine break. He fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. At last, a party could be heard approaching.

One look at the thickness of the folder that the German general carried, and Hogan knew it was all over. He and his men were dead; all that remained was to see how many of the others he could save.

The general stopped in front of the American colonel, who really _was_ the most dangerous man in all Germany. "You are a remarkable man, Colonel Hogan," he said in a quiet tone. "I had not expected such an extensive operation. Absolutely incredible. It is a pity that you were not on our side; the war could have been ended much sooner, with far less suffering for all concerned.

"But you will not believe what I know without proof; you will not be fooled easily. So, here is the proof." He slipped the first set of photos out of the folder, holding up those showing the camouflaging bunk, and the opened tunnel entrance from Barracks 2.

"Now, would you care to tell me about it?"

Hogan looked down and sighed. "What do you want to know, General?" he asked, his voice soft in defeat.

"This was a well-run organization, and quite complex. You would have had to delegate a good bit. Which of your men were responsible for what duties?"

Hogan looked up at that, seeing a picture of some of his men being held up next. His men, in "basic black." That picture had been down in the radio room, hung there as a joke one night and apparently forgotten afterward.

"Ooops," Newkirk muttered beside him. "Forgot about that one, I did."

The general chuckled, amused by their byplay. He could identify most of the men in that picture; only two were not already chained to this wall, and those were in the cells across the way. "Who took this picture, just to satisfy my curiosity, Colonel?"

Hogan looked at the photo again, and thought back, then sighed again and shifted his gaze to his adversary. "If I tell you, will you swear on your honor as a German officer that you'll leave the rest alone?"

"You have my word, as an officer and a gentleman, Colonel," the reply came back in a solemn tone. "And I would so swear on a Bible, as well, did I have one to hand. I will not prosecute the men still remaining in camp---they have been moved to Stalag 16, by the way---if they were not actively involved in sabotage or espionage. I do _not_ count the digging of your tunnels against them; everyone knows that prisoners dig tunnels, after all. I will, however, expect a _full_ list of names, whether I have them here already or not. Should I later discover that you have omitted a name…Well, I expect that you will not.

"I am waiting, Colonel."

He looked over at his men. "Sorry, guys, but…"

"Yeah, Colonel. You gotta do it. We understand," Kinch reassured his commanding officer one last time.

"Sergeant Kinchloe was my second in command and primary radio operator," Hogan began, clearly unhappy. "He didn't come out with us often, but sometimes…Sergeant Baker was our relief radio operator. He came out with us more than Kinch did, but still not very often. Mostly it was Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau."

Hogan paused and looked up to see the general's young aide rapidly taking notes. He shook his head, but continued, a bit slower now. "LeBeau did some work on the uniforms, but mostly he cooked for us. He's a really good chef---French, you know," Hogan added with a grin, but the levity faded from his eyes as quickly as it had come. "Corporal Newkirk…Peter picks pockets, cracks safes, forges papers, sews a fine seam, and does great commando work. He's a crack shot. Doesn't take orders all that well, but he's as loyal a man as an officer can ask for.

"Sergeant Carter is our demolitions expert _cum_ chemist. Develops our photos…mostly, he likes big explosions. You know, just a good-hearted, all-American boy."

Mannheim couldn't keep back a chuckle at that. He shook his head then, still fighting back a smile. "Colonel, I am not conducting job interviews, although you do paint some quite convincing pictures of your men. What about this one?" he asked, pointing to a tall young man off to one side in the picture.

"That's Olsen," Hogan answered. He hadn't meant to give _him_ up if it could have been avoided, but… "He did a little sabotage work with us, mostly if it was too big a job for the five of us to handle, or if one of us was indisposed. When we first started operations, he was primarily our "outside man"---he went out and stayed with a local family when we had an escapee from some other camp to hide. We stopped doing that after about eight months, though; it turned out to complicate things too much. After that, he was mostly used for diversions.

"That one's Sgt. Matthews," he continued as the general's fingertip indicated another man in blackface. "One of my barracks chiefs, though those didn't usually get involved in much besides creating diversions. Matthews was another one of my 'sometimes' men, like Olsen."

"And who took this photograph?"

"I did, sir." The voice came out of one of the cells at General Mannheim's back. He turned and looked over the men there, meeting the eyes of a stocky young sergeant who'd stepped to the front. "Sergeant Joe Wilson, sir. I'm a medic."

"Ah," Mannheim acknowledged this volunteered identification. "And did you, too, take part in these activities, Sergeant?"

"Not really, sir. I mean, I didn't go out and blow up anything; I stayed in camp to pick up the pieces and patch up the bullet-holes."

"General," Hogan interjected quickly, "as a medic Sgt. Wilson was technically a noncombatant. He wasn't really involved. Neither were my barracks chiefs, except for Matthews. They just watched out for their men and maintained their tunnel entrances.

"And, General? There's a corporal in here that knows absolutely nothing about all of this. He'd only been in camp maybe three weeks before you took us. He's completely innocent. That's Corporal Baker, there."

"What about your _kommandant,_ Oberst Klink? And that fat sergeant, Schultz?" Mannheim demanded, curious to see how, or even if, Hogan would defend those men.

_"Klink?!_ Come _on, _General! _You_ met the old 'Iron Eagle,'" Hogan scoffed. "He couldn't have found anything if it was right in front of his face! He would've been sent to the eastern front dozens of times, if it hadn't been for us; we kept him out of trouble, and in charge of the camp, simply because he was so easy to fool. We could've had real problems if we'd had a _competent_ officer in charge."

"And Schultz?"

"Schultz?" Hogan's eyes softened at the thought of the corpulent noncom. "Schultz was a good guy---you know; too gentle. He'd've died anywhere else. We tried not to let him see anything, but I don't honestly know what he really was aware of. He didn't _want_ to know, because he didn't want to get himself or anyone else in trouble. We took advantage of him shamelessly. He never did anything against his own side knowingly, though."

"Anyone else?" Mannheim inquired when Hogan no longer volunteered information.

"Some of the guys worked down in the tunnels, making stuff or digging when we had a rush job," the American colonel admitted unwillingly. "A couple may have come out with us for one or two jobs, but those would have been rare occasions. Mostly the men just stayed in camp, so Klink would have his 'no successful escapes' record intact. They'd help pull botched escapes sometimes, just to keep up appearances. They all considered themselves to be stationed there, General. All volunteers, to support _our_ organization. We tried to keep them out of it as much as possible, just in case something like this should happen. I just hoped I could protect them, if we got caught."

General Mannheim nodded thoughtfully. All the men he'd known about had been identified by Hogan; that had sounded like a very thorough primary confession. Now he could afford to be a little generous. "Very well, Hogan," he began slowly, thoughtfully. "I have no desire, as I have said, to punish men whose only fault was doing their duty. With the exceptions you've mentioned, your Barracks chiefs will be returned to camp and turned out among the general population there. They will be going home soon, as all men holding British and French citizenship are to be processed for repatriation starting next week. Your American comrades are more of a problem, since you've been denied return by your former government. We will work something out for those men, I am certain.

"You and your men will be provided paper and left in your cells to write out full confessions. Understand me well, gentlemen. When I say full confessions, I do _not_ mean a simple statement such as, 'I was one of Hogan's men.'" I want specifics, as much as you can remember, of each of your missions. You will not get your friends from the Underground in trouble, I can assure you. They have all been given blanket amnesties and have written out similar confessions. In any case, this is required of you men, to protect the rest of your comrades.

"Once that is done, you, Corporal LeBeau, and you, Corporal Newkirk, will be eligible for repatriation. You will be returned to the general population until you leave for your respective countries. You will be watched in the future, but you will be freed."

Hogan gaped at the general. If he could only believe it---his men, spared! He snapped his attention back to the general's words.

"…others of your men will also be returned to the general populations. Do you have any questions?"

"I'm sorry, General…"

"I said, your men will all be returned to camp once I have the signed full confessions from all of you," Mannheim repeated carefully.

"And me?"

"You, Colonel Hogan, will unfortunately stand trial for war crimes."

**A/N: **Prison camps were actually numbered according to the military district that they were located in, followed by a letter which indicated which camp it actually was, e.g., XIIIC. There was no actual district XIV, XV, XVI, or XIX. (That last would have been Russia.) This lets me put Stalag XVI wherever I want. (*wicked grin* Aren't AUs wonderful?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2**

He could feel their eyes on him, hard, unbelieving, calculating. He walked tall, carrying himself almost as stiffly as a German would. He had an image to maintain, after all; he would _not_ disgrace his uniform. And for this day of days, he had been allowed to wear the uniform of his own country, even though the decorations he'd earned were British ones. It was as a Colonel of the United States Army Air Corps that he stood before his victorious enemies today: his judges, and no doubt soon-to-be executioners.

It had taken them four days to go over the evidence, and his neatly typed confession---all 153 pages of it, single-spaced. Throughout, the audience in the gallery couldn't seem to believe that the infamous PAPA BEAR had actually been captured _alive_ and now stood trial before them.

Hogan had to give his defense officer credit: The man had tried, but, in the face of that confession… There could be little doubt as to the truth of it. All events had been checked against known acts of sabotage and had agreed precisely. The incidents of espionage had been harder to verify, but those, too, had been ultimately confirmed. There could be little doubt about the court's findings.

«Colonel Hogan, you will rise, » the bailiff announced.

He took a deep breath and complied, standing as close to attention as his manacled wrists would allow. _Here it comes,_ he thought, fighting to hide all emotion as he waited.

«This military Tribunal has heard all the presented Evidence, Colonel. How do you plead? »

Five men, generals of the highest rank, sat glaring at him with cold eyes. He was surprised to see that General Mannheim was not one of them, but, then again, he'd been the one who'd caught him. Wouldn't have been fair…

«Guilty as charged, sir,» he responded in fluent German, his accent perfect. These were the first words he'd spoken since refusing the services of an interpreter at the start of the first day of hearings.

«Colonel,» one of the generals protested, surprised by this response. «You will not get a lighter Sentence…»

«I understand, _Herr General,»_ Hogan answered respectfully. «I can plead nothing else, for this _is_ the Truth. I have done, and did order my Men to do, all that I have been accused of doing. Those were my Orders, and I obeyed them to the best of my Ability. I must admit to them, for I am under Oath here and will _not_ be forsworn. »

«I see,» the general said, and a wintry smile crossed his face momentarily. «At least no one can accuse you of trying to delay these Proceedings with useless Protestations of Innocence.» A small ripple of laughter passed down the bench, but it died quickly.

Hogan grinned, too, but lost his expression again as he once more braced himself to hear the worst. His attention was caught briefly by the dust motes drifting in a beam of light that came through the courtroom's large windows, the last of the afternoon sun. This might be, he realized in sorrow, the last time he would ever see the sun. A quiet rustling of papers drew his eyes back to the men sitting in judgment over him.

The commander of the court looked up with a sigh, meeting the eyes of this brash young American colonel. _Such a waste,_ he thought as he did his duty. «This Court finds you guilty of all Charges laid, Colonel Hogan, » he announced gravely. «Therefore, you will be executed in three Days' Time. Normally in a Case like this, you would face a Hangman, but you have not only cooperated in full, but also have proven yourself to be an honorable Adversary. I am sure that there are some who might dispute that last Sentiment; however, that is the unanimous Opinion of this Court. In light of that Fact, we have decided that a Firing Squad is a more fitting End.

«Does the Prisoner have any Questions for this Court?»

_«Ja, Herr General,»_ Hogan managed to keep his voice even as he asked, «Could you please ensure that my Men _not_ be allowed to watch?»

«I believe that such a reasonable Request can be granted, Colonel,» came the surprised reply. «There being no further Questions…Very well. Remove the Prisoner; this Court is adjourned.»

Hogan watched as the five generals withdrew into a room behind their seats, then turned to accompany his guard. No need to cause any problems now, he thought, ready to go where directed. To his great surprise, he saw General Mannheim speak briefly to the captain in charge of the prisoner's escort, who nodded once, then came to attention and saluted. Without even a glance at Hogan, the general passed through that doorway to join the other five in what was, no doubt, the judges' chambers.

Hogan had no chance to ponder further, however, for he was being urged back into the room where he'd waited during breaks in the trial. _What now?_ he wondered, too tired by it all to contemplate anything seriously. Numb, he sat where he was told and drifted off into a doze.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

General Mannheim knocked once, then passed into the judges' lounge. «Generals, might I have a few Moments of your Time?» he requested, carefully respectful. He was a young upstart compared to these men, he knew; not only one of the youngest generals in military intelligence, the _Abwehr,_ but _the_ youngest general ever to be appointed to the office of Inspector General. Among his duties would be the disposition of prisoners; no time to start like the present, he thought, although he was carefully considering what he wished to say here.

«Ah, Sebastian, come in,» General Siegfried Wertzer called out cheerfully. «You did excellent Work with Hogan's Case. I congratulate you on your Correlations of Data; that must have been a Nightmare of a Job. »

«_Ja;_ however did you manage to tame him so quickly?» This question came from a man unknown to Mannheim, but the younger man could sense no hostility in the inquiry.

«I made a Deal with him,» he admitted with a smile, enjoying the shocked looks on his listeners' faces. «We had all the Facts needed to hang him _and_ his Men, but there were many Gaps in our Information. I am sure that you will have noticed that only Colonel Hogan---PAPA BEAR himself---was brought to Trial?

«In exchange for a full Confession from the Colonel and his inner Circle, my Office issued Pardons to all of his Men. At the time I offered the Deal, I had intended to include his Sabotage Crew for Trials, but he gave such a truthful initial Confession, I felt that something more was due. No Doubt you find that an odd Concept.» Mannheim paused, carefully watching the faces of his superiors, in experience if not in rank.

«_Ja,_ something was due,» General Walter Knaub agreed. «I have seen the Packets containing the Confessions of a number of his Men, as well as some from the Underground. Those would be considered full; what Hogan delivered was…incredible.»

«'Incredible' describes Colonel Hogan himself most thoroughly,» Mannheim stated in a confident voice. «Also, 'Genius' would fit, both as a Tactician _and_ as a Strategist. In fact, I feel that it would be a Crime to throw that Genius away, to destroy that Mind.

«Generals, with your Permission, I would like to have that Man.»

Shocked silence greeted that statement; then all at once:

«He is rightly called the most dangerous Man in Germany…»

«Are you out of your Mind?!»

«Do you realize the Damage that Man can do?»

«How do you plan to control him, Sebastian?»

That question silenced all the others, as they paused to hear their young comrade's answer.

«Allow me a bit of digression, Generals, if you would,» Mannheim cautiously replied. «As you are all aware, Germany is faced with a number of very difficult, sensitive Problems, diverse in Nature, but all due to the War:

«First, we have severe Damage from extensive Sabotage, especially from the early Days of the War, before Hitler and his Cohorts were removed from Power. There is also the Damage from subsequent Bombings by the Allies.

«Second, we have a Manpower shortage, both here and in the annexed Countries, due to Battle Losses. In Addition, and despite this, we must garrison our new Possessions.

«Thirdly, we are left with several thousand American-born Prisoners of War, who have no Country to be returned to. The British don't want them; they have enough Problems with the native-born men coming back to their Homes. The Americans refuse to accept them, claiming them to be 'War Criminals' because they stayed here to fight us instead of obeying their President's Summons to return back in '39.

«I have been assigned to deal with some of these Problems. It has been brought to my Attention that, by combining these Problems, we can also solve them. All those American POWs represent an extensive Labor Pool, if utilized wisely. They can be used to repair battle Damage to Europe's Infrastructure: Roads, Communication Networks, Railroads, etc., without worrying about the Geneva Accords any longer, since they have been declared to be Criminals by their own Government. They can also be used to replace lost Farm Labor, both here in Germany and in our new Possessions. Most of those men are very honorable---odd as that sounds, since they have no cultural History of Aristocracy to base it on or develop it from. If they give Parole, they will be safe enough in these Types of Jobs.

«Thus, they will not be sitting idle, using up Resources needed by productive Citizens; they will be repairing Damage they helped cause, and they will not need to be guarded as closely, freeing up more Military Personnel.» He paused to study his audience before hitting them with the clinching argument: «High Command has approved this much of the Plan already.»

Heads that had been nodding thoughtfully went suddenly motionless; then General Wertzer laughed. «Well played, Lad,» he chortled at the man he'd watched grow up, the youngest son of his best friend in _Gymnasium._ «So, you hope to use this Colonel Hogan---how?»

«I'm not fully sure,» Mannheim confessed ruefully. «As a private Pilot, perhaps. I will need to be traveling all over Europe in the course of my Duties, and this would free up at least one Man; perhaps two, if I pick out another. I feel that I will be able to trust his Word, once he gives his Parole. You heard him in Court today.»

«_Ja,_ we heard him. And if he runs, you will never find him again, so good is his German.»

«Walter, that need not be so great a Problem,» General Fritz Mueller spoke for the first time. «The SS worried over that early in the War, when they were rounding up the Juden. They solved the Problem by tattooing an Identity Number on their Arms, where it could be easily seen. While these Americans will no doubt protest, they will probably submit if it is made a Condition of their Release and Employment.»

«Many of them will accept it,» Mannheim concurred. «They are sick of sitting in POW Camps. Outside Employment can be made to sound very attractive to them. Already there are some out on work Details, although these are at one of the _Heer_ Bases. They had been very badly treated by their former Kommandant_._»

«That will do well enough for most, but I am not convinced that it would work with Hogan.» Mueller had a stubborn look on his face now. «Besides, _he_ has a Date with a Firing Squad.»

«He will stand by his Word, once he gives his Loyalty,» Mannheim insisted. «I have had much time to study him, much time to _learn_ him so I could catch him. There is too much Potential in him to waste in a Hail of Lead. Better to keep him alive, even if it _is_ for a Lifetime of Servitude. Too much has been wasted in this War to be able to throw away so much Talent that we could use to our Benefit. »

«I still have Doubts. Convince me. _Show_ me Hogan's Loyalty, and I will agree to this. Otherwise, he will die in three Days as we have said.»

«Jawohl, _Herr General._ Let me have him brought in, and I _will_ show you.»

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

"Hogan, _raus._ You are sent for."

He became aware of his guard's hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Sent for? He couldn't make any sense of this. He struggled to his feet, surprised when his guards helped him up and steadied him when he wavered momentarily. While no one had roughed him up any during the month in which he'd waited for his trial, none had shown much consideration, either. What was going on here?

Still, he was on his feet and moving as his guards directed. Out the door to the hallway, yes, but they turned him away from where he knew the holding cells to be. Try as he might, he just couldn't seem to get his brain into gear.

Someone placed a small glass of amber liquid into his hands. "Drink some of this, Hogan," he was told. Too numb to think clearly, conditioned now to obedience, he did as directed, emptying the glass in one gulp, gasping as liquid fire ran down his throat. He looked up in shock to see Mannheim, his nemesis, gazing at him in concern.

"Better?" the German inquired as he watched the American's eyes clear and focus.

"That's a deadly weapon, General," Hogan gasped in response, still catching his breath. Then he held out the glass hopefully. When it was refilled, he sipped it carefully, not wanting to err through drunkenness. «What can I do for you?» he asked, his skin crawling uncomfortably with six high-ranking Germans all studying him so intently.

«There are several Questions that I find I neglected to ask you earlier, Hogan,» Mannheim explained, his expression saying nothing. «Perhaps you would care to answer them for us?»

«Sure, be glad to, » Hogan responded, puzzled. «Don't think I left out anything, though.»

«No; this is---Information---beyond your actual Unit here in Germany. Who did you get your Orders from, Hogan?» Mannheim thought he knew his man well---the men who'd worked with him, yes, Hogan had given up those names, but they'd been compromised already. The Underground people? They already had amnesties, and even then he'd only given code names. One could pretend that he'd not known their actual names. But his controlling officer?

«I told you that, General,» Hogan tried to laugh this off, although he could feel an edge of fear start to grow in his gut. «I got our Orders from GOLDILOCKS in London, usually via a Sub in the North Sea, Code Name MAMA BEAR.»

«What was his---or was it 'her,' Hogan? What was GOLDILOCKS' Name?»

How was he going to distract this German, Hogan wondered, mind finally coming to full alertness. He couldn't turn Wimbley in; there were Germans in London now, and they'd execute the old man for giving those orders, just like they were going to shoot him in three days…_No, don't dwell on that. Think, Hogan!_ he ordered himself, wishing that he could pace here, the way he'd done to think at Stalag 13. «Well, you see, General, there were several Voices,» he tried to obfuscate. «All Girls; they sounded lovely. Never knew any of their Names, though I wished I did, lots of Nights.»

«Oh, very good, very good indeed, Hogan,» Mannheim laughed. «No one could say you did not answer the Question _as it was asked,_ although we all know you are actually avoiding answering. So. Who initiated your Orders---no; you would not know from how high those Orders came, would you? Ah. Who was the next Link in the Chain of Command above you, Colonel---and the one above that, if you know?»

He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. This Kraut was _good_---very, _very_ good. He'd learned how Hogan thought, how he would worm his way out of corners. Now he was trapped. Taking a deep breath, Hogan straightened to attention once more. «I'm sorry, General, but, with all due Respect, I cannot answer that Question.»

«Cannot, or _will_ not?» one of the other Germans in the room asked, his eyes bright with interest.

_«Herr General,_ it all comes down to the same Thing,» Hogan responded, wondering now why no one seemed to be getting mad at him for withholding information.

«Very well,» Mannheim interjected, growing more thoughtful. «Your Operation was very complex, very well considered. Who was responsible for setting it up in the first Place?»

«I was, sir.» What was he getting at now, Hogan wondered as he carefully watched his interrogators.

«Colonel, _you_ were just a Pilot, or so we were led to believe. One who went to England, to fly against us. How, I wonder, could someone like that set up such a _complete_ Espionage Unit, such as you had? Tell me, Colonel Hogan, just what was it you did before the War?»

He nearly laughed. They couldn't kill him twice, could they? He was already a dead man. «I can't answer that Question, sir.»

«Ah. Now who are you protecting, I wonder? And how can you justify protecting a Government that threw you, and so many others, away like so much Refuse? You _did_ work for your Government, didn't you, Colonel Hogan. Doing what? Is that where you learned your German, so you could spy on us?»

Two glasses of schnapps on an empty stomach, lack of sleep, and emotional shock caused him to slip. That was the only excuse he could come up with, later, for what he said next. «I never spied on Germany.» He knew he'd blown it the moment the words left his lips. He _should_ have said "I was never a spy," or something more like that.

Mannheim just sat back, smiling in satisfaction. «We make Progress now, Colonel,» he purred in contentment. «If not on Germany, then who?» He paused, then added, «We _could_ still exchange that Firing Squad for a Rope, Colonel.»

He felt rebellious, but they _could_ only kill him once. «Russia,» he answered, not caring what they thought of that. He waited for the explosion of protests, or anger, or whatever, which never came. He looked around at these powerful men, who seemed to view him with even greater interest than before.

«And do you speak Russian, also, Colonel Hogan?» the oldest of the group asked, his curiosity piqued. «Ah, but, of course you do, don't you? You would be a poor Spy, else. How could you know what Information would be useful, otherwise?»

«For which Government did you spy, Hogan? Why did you leave them? Or _did_ you leave them?» Mannheim took over the questioning again.

Uh-oh, this was getting bad, Hogan realized. They may have promised him a lead breakfast in three days, but nothing said those intervening days had to be quiet, or painless. «It was the States, and yes, I quit before going to England,» he admitted, wondering if they'd believe him. «The Commies were, and _are,_ a Danger, but Hitler was a more immediate Problem. My government wasn't going to get involved, even though I told them that, so I quit my Job with Intelligence, as you thought, and went to London to fight. And before you ask, no, I did not get shot down on purpose, and no, they did not ask me to set up an Organization here. I just saw an Opportunity and took it. Made the most of the Situation at Stalag 13. Contacted London through the Underground---look, I've already told you all that. »

«So who did you get your Orders from?»

«Sorry, General; you'll just have to shoot me, or hang me, or whatever you decide to do. I won't tell you that.» Hogan knew that he did not sound sorry in the least; he sounded as stubborn as a bulldog, which was just the way he wanted it.

But to his utter amazement, Mannheim just turned to the others and laughed. «And _that's_ why I want him,» he said to General Mueller, who nodded thoughtfully.

«_Ja,_ I see that. No one could be hurt by his admitting to spying on Russia, but his former Controller in London could be taken. And Hogan may indeed be useful, for his Knowledge of the Communists, if nothing else,» Mueller conceded.

«I still fear you will have Trouble holding him securely, Sebastian. He could easily slip away from you. Look what he did to Klink, even with that brute Hochstetter breathing down his Neck half the time.» General Wertzer was very concerned, for, if Hogan ran, it would do irreparable damage to young Mannheim's reputation. The young sprout didn't look concerned in the least, though.

Hogan felt rather like a Ping-Pong ball, bouncing from one German to the next. Mannheim wanted him for something? Did that mean that he didn't intend to have him shot? It sounded that way, but surely they couldn't mean that!

Mannheim turned to face him then, as stiff and formal as Hogan had ever seen him. «I require your Parole, Hogan. Unconditional, irrevocable. You will obey me in all Things. You will _never_ attempt to run or undermine any of my Efforts. You will never betray me to another. You will, before these Witnesses, make yourself _mine._ Do you understand what I am asking of you?»

«Umm, _ja, Herr General,»_ Hogan said slowly. «I understand what you're requiring, but there's a Problem. I still _will not_ betray my former, as you put it, Controllers.»

«Barring that one Thing, then, Hogan. What say you?»

«I'd like to know what you mean to have me doing, General. I'm already in the Frying Pan; I don't want to find myself jumping straight into the Fire.» He always joked when things were tightest; just couldn't help himself, he guessed. But this Kraut already knew that about him and smiled, just barely, at his attempted levity.

«Good, you are getting back to Normal---for you, that is. As for what I intend for you---you are a Pilot, a Bomber Pilot, although I believe you've also flown Fighters. I will require you to fly me wherever I need to go, in my personal Plane. A modified Heinkel Bomber should not be too different from what you already know. You will do whatever other Tasks you are set---I know you are versatile---and, perhaps, I will use you against Russia someday. I am not so foolish as to try to use you against the United States; you have my Word on that.

«You understand that Steps will be taken to contain you; we have not yet decided what Steps, but you will be expected to submit, with no right to object on your Part. This does not impugn your Honor, but only answers our Necessity. Is this understood?»

_Take a deep breath, Hogan. Keep the hope down to reasonable levels. Nothing says he won't shoot you later. …Yeah, but that's later, isn't it?_ his thoughts answered themselves. «Any idea what sort of 'Steps' you're contemplating, sir? Just out of curiosity?» he heard his own voice asking.

Mannheim looked at him, thoughtful. Probably….yes, he decided. «You already have a Number assigned to you as a POW. This will be tattooed, so you will not be able to 'change your Spots' so easily. Just a Precaution, you understand.»

«Make it harder to go Undercover into Russia,» Hogan returned, not so terribly unhappy. Not good, but he supposed it could be worse. «Where were you thinking of putting it, anyway? On an Arm, like the SS did to the Jews they locked up and slaughtered? »

«_How do you know about that?!_» General Knaub demanded, but it was Wertzer, not Hogan, who replied.

«Oh, come now, Walter,» he chided gently. «With his Reputation, he's probably---yes, I remember reading it in his Confession. He's _been_ to Dachau, seen what went on there, and that just Months before Hitler and the SS were removed, and it was shut down. I doubt there was very much that went on in Germany that he _didn't _know something about. Add to that the Fact that there were a few Escapes from the Concentration Camps---who were never recaptured---and you have to know that the Word got out.»

«Oh, I suppose you're correct,» Knaub acknowledged, though he still didn't look very happy at the thought.

Mannheim looked thoughtful as he returned to the earlier conversation. «Yes, that _could_ be a Problem. Well, that Location should serve for the rest. I'll have to think about yours a bit, _but, _and I am deadly serious here, Hogan: You will not get even a taste of Freedom without that Tattoo somewhere on your Person.»

«Jawohl, Herr General_,_» Hogan responded as the German paused for breath. «I understand you completely. And you're right when you imply that I have little Choice here. So:

"I give you my parole, General, in all particulars mentioned---and probably a few that you haven't thought of. I've got nowhere else to go, and a firing squad is no choice at all." Hogan paused once more for a breath, then gave a lopsided grin. «Do you think I can go back to my Cell now, sir? Falling over is becoming a better Idea all the Time.»

«Sebastian, you'll either kill him in a Month, or you'll have the perfect Aide,» Wertzer dryly remarked.

«Kill him? _Nein, Herr General,»_ Mannheim laughed at his father's oldest friend. «I will come to value his sense of Humor even more than I do now. You will see: when he is better rested, he will be more careful of his Mouth. Already he is more cautious than he ever was with Klink, or Burkhalter, if half of what I've heard is true. Most was just an Act, to put them off Guard and to hide what he was doing, but there is no need for that now---_is there,_ Hogan?» He looked deeply into the American's dark eyes and saw reluctant agreement there. Satisfied at last, he called for the guards and had his newest…possession?...taken away to his cell for food and rest.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

«Where do you think you're taking that, Corporal?» the harsh growl penetrated Hogan's dream, causing him to awaken in his dimly lit cell. A pity, he thought, still half-asleep. He'd felt warm for the first time since…his eyes popped open in surprise. He hadn't _dreamed_ about being warm, he _was_ warm! Feeling around his cot in the half-light, he found that someone had draped an extra blanket over him sometime after he'd fallen asleep.

«To the American in Cell 29, Feldwebel_,_» someone answered, sounding confused at the interruption of his errand.

«_Nein;_ he'll be dead in three Days. No need to waste good Food on defeated Trash. Leave that Tray here, and see to the rest of your Duties.»

«But, _Feldwebel…_»

«Do as I say, or you'll find yourself on Report!» the ugly voice threatened.

Suddenly, Hogan realized that it was most likely _his_ dinner that was about to be stolen. «Do as he says, Corporal, and you'll probably find yourself heading East along with him,» Hogan called out in his best German-officer voice.

«Be silent, _Schweinhund!_»

_Oh, yeah,_ Hogan thought with an inner chuckle. _That_ _roused his temper good and proper. Now he'll probably---yep, there are the keys._

The cell door crashed open, flooding him with light. The sergeant was every bit as ugly-looking as his voice had led Hogan to expect. He headed towards his intended victim, pulling a sap from his belt.

But the American didn't cringe away as the _feldwebel_ had expected; he just sat there, _grinning!_

«Corporal,» Hogan called out, «the Minute he lays a Hand on me, you go and call General Mannheim and tell him, or his Aide, what's going on. Then you go get some MP's and arrest this Jerk. You'll regret it if you don't.»

«German Soldiers don't take Orders from Prisoners!» the sergeant snarled as he swung the sap.

Hogan just grinned and took it on his left forearm. Out in the hallway, he could see the young corporal hesitate a moment, then bolt back towards the guardroom. _Smart lad,_ Hogan thought as he carefully avoided the worst of this latest beating.

It wasn't long before the sound of running jackboots came pounding down the hallway. Three MP's burst into the cell, beating the shocked sergeant away from his victim with their rifle butts. Hogan stayed very still on his cot, not wanting to get shot by accident now. But one of the MP's was turning to him.

"Are you hurt, sir?" he asked, very respectfully. "The general vill be here shortly. Do you need a _Doktor_?"

«No, thank you, _Feldwebel._ He didn't have Time to do too much Damage. Thank you for your rapid Response.» He grinned, weakly now, at the man who checked him over for injuries anyway. The guard-sergeant who'd beaten him stared in dumb amazement at the rifles aimed at him so threateningly. Somehow, Hogan decided, that made the pain worth it; then, _Ah, Act 2 begins,_ he thought, for he now heard angry-sounding footsteps coming down the hallway.

«Feldwebel, » Hogan asked quietly, «what Time is it?»

«Nineteen hundred Hours, or a bit after,» the man answered. «Why?»

«Dinnertime, say, for a General?»

«_Ja,_ most definitely,» the MP replied, with a belated grin as he realized what Hogan was getting at. He fell silent as General Mannheim strode into the cell, the young corporal at his heels.

He just stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at all around him, finally settling his gaze on Hogan where he lay on his cot. «Hogan,» he fumed, fighting not to laugh as he realized what had probably happened here. «Can I not even have you fed without you getting yourself into Trouble? My Dinner will be cold by now. Were you not satisfied with the Meal I sent you, that you must ruin mine also?»

The sergeant, Hogan saw, was now quite pale as he realized that he'd missed some important information somehow. The young corporal was looking relieved, as _he_ realized that his general wasn't angry with _him_, and probably wasn't really mad at this prisoner, either. But the _feldwebel_ would be in Really Big Trouble, and very soon.

«I'm sorry, mein General,» Hogan said, a wicked gleam in his eyes. «I couldn't tell you what I thought about the Dinner you sent for me, since the _feldwebel_ over there decided that I didn't deserve it. Something about I was gonna be Dead in three Days anyway, and not to waste good Food on me. What was for Dinner, anyway?»

«He _lies!_» the sergeant tried to claim, but the corporal was no fool.

«He does not,» that young man said in a calm, even voice. «He even warned what would happen once you heard, _Herr General._ He said that I should send for you.»

«And then he calmly sat there and took a Beating, knowing he would be avenged, no doubt,» Mannheim dryly finished. Oh, yes, he could easily picture the whole thing. «Hogan, what am I going to do with you? Your Sentence hasn't even been commuted for four Hours, and already you give me Grief.» He shook his head in mock sorrow, then grinned back at his man. «Are you well enough to walk, Hogan? It is obvious that I cannot leave you here, if I wish to eat. I suppose that you will just have to come with me. Full Dress in the Mess, if you would. The British Uniform, please; you will cause less of a Stir that way.

«Guards. Throw _that_ Man,» here he indicated the blustering sergeant, «into a Cell. See that he is sent to the Eastern Front as soon as possible---as far _north_ as possible. I do _not_ appreciate having _any_ of my Men mistreated.

«A Commendation for the Corporal.»

He was sore, and starting to stiffen, but Hogan managed to get himself dressed without having to accept any help. Dinner, no matter how good, was never quite as satisfying when served in a cell.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

«It is Official,» Mannheim remarked quietly as the two men sat with after-dinner cognac and cigars, two days later. «The Numbers will be tattooed on all the former American POWs. They will not be allowed out of their Internment Camps without it. The 'preferred' location is to be the inside of the right Forearm, but variation will be allowed at the discretion of their...controlling Individual. You will not be an exception to this; it is Law now.»

«You worked fast, General,» Hogan muttered softly, trying to disguise his displeasure at this news. He had hoped---but, really, what else could they do with him? He should be grateful they didn't tattoo it across his Forehead, or someplace equally obvious.

_«Natürlich,»_ Mannheim chuckled back, preferring not to comment on Hogan's reaction to the news. «One must, when dealing with you, Colonel - although I really shouldn't be calling you that any longer. Officially, you are no longer Military Personnel, at least not in the normal Sense. You haven't been since you were signed out to my Custody. What would you prefer?»

«I get a Choice? No, sorry, General,» Hogan quickly amended. «I know it's not your Fault - well, in a way, it _is_, but you're doing the best you can by me. I'll get my Temper under control. My biggest Fault, you know. My Temper.» He paused a moment, but the German officer just nodded in acceptance of the apology and waved for him to continue.

All things considered, Hogan was being very meek and tolerant, more so than he'd ever been while under Klink's command. «So, what would you prefer? Hogan? Robert? Just for your information,» Mannheim then interrupted himself, «it has been decided that your official Status is to be known as 'Bondsman,' since I hold your Bond---that is, your Parole.»

«That just for me, or does it go for all the rest, too?»

«All who are signed out of a Camp on either permanent or temporary Work Forces are to be known thus. You, Hogan, are permanent; should I die before you, you will go to the Custody of a specially designated Heir, not just to my Family.»

«Oh, great.» He fell silent again as he wrestled his temper back under control once more. He sighed and turned a jaundiced eye on the man who apparently would control the rest of his life. «I guess it sounds better than, say, 'Slave,'» he grumbled, his anger barely in check.

«Hmmm. You should consider it as being more like a Serf. Such cannot be sold, you see; once they've been permanently assigned, they can only be returned to an Internment Camp should their Placing not work out. You, however, would simply have your original Sentence carried out.

«I am hoping that you will eventually become the equivalent of a valued family Retainer. Surely you were in England long enough to learn the Concept?»

«Yeah, » Hogan sighed again, then looked down. «I wasn't keen on it then, either. Not the way I was raised, y'know?»

«You will cope, I am sure. Now then, must I repeat myself? I will choose a Name for you if you do not, and then you will be stuck, I warn you.» Mannheim let his voice take on a teasing edge.

«_Anything_ but that,» Hogan responded, finally letting his anger go. «Better be 'Hogan' in Public. If you want something more informal in Private, then I'd prefer 'Rob', not 'Bob' or 'Robert.' And _never_ 'Robert Edward.' That was my Dad's you're-in-big-trouble Name for me. Besides, I suspect we've a more important Issue to decide, right?»

«_Ja,_» the confirmation sounded almost regretful. «In Public, you do well as you have been addressing me; you know our Customs well. I'm sure you heard what General Wertzer called me. My Name is actually Friedrich Sebastian, but that was my Father's Name, also, and he is 'Friedrich' to his Friends.»

«So, you're Sebastian,» Hogan nodded, chuckling at the distinction, the same one often used in the States. «Unless your Dad was mad at you; then it was the whole Thing, right?»

«You do have a fine grasp on the Situation,» came the laughing reply.

«How about 'Ian' in Private?» Hogan offered suddenly. «It might be best to have a kind of Code, for recognition, or warning against Trouble or Coercion.»

«If you use something else, I should suspect a Trap of some kind?»

«Yeah...uh, yes sir,» Hogan quickly corrected himself, not sure if such informality was a good idea this soon.

«Relax, Rob,» the general murmured, obviously trying out the new label for the American. It fit, he decided, smiling to himself. «While it is true that one unpleasant Subject must now be discussed, there is no need to be overly formal. Just see that your Temper remains calm, and we can deal with this repugnant Topic like two civilized Gentleman. Which, I am certain, we both are.»

«Yes, sir,» Hogan responded automatically to the implied order in the manner which had been long drilled into him, then shrugged with a grimace. «Sorry, sir; 'Ian' just doesn't feel right at the Moment. Maybe once we've gotten the Shouting out of the way...» He trailed off with a shrug.

«There will be no Shouting, because there is no need for it.» The German leaned back further in his chair, taking an appreciative sip of the fine French cognac that his older brother, a field marshal, had had sent to him. «You know that this will be done, so that Issue need not be discussed at all. I agree that, due to possible future Need, your Forearm is not a good Choice of Placement. I have no Doubts that you've given thought to this Matter, against the Chance that you could not dissuade me.»

«_If_ I need to go Undercover, Herr General_,_» Hogan spoke with dogged stubbornness, «a Tattoo such as that _anywhere_ could mean my Death. You can't foresee what Situations might arise, necessitating the removal of Clothing...»

Mannheim's roar of laughter cut him off. «Oh, _ja,_ that is an excellent Argument, considering your Reputation with the Ladies. In your Case, I am certain that you will do your best to ensure that Clothing _will_ be removed anytime a Female is involved.» He laughed even harder at the glare Hogan shot at him, breaking into a coughing spell. Only Rob's quick grab saved the delicate crystal glass from falling to the floor and shattering.

«Waste of good Cognac,» the American groused, although, in truth, the glass had been nearly empty. He looked over at the older man and grimaced. «Oh, stop laughing at me, willya? I had to at least _try_ that Approach. It better be somewhere on my Back then. Less likely to be seen in a darkened Room...»

«_Bed_room, you mean,» Mannheim choked out between gasps for breath, but he was calming down at last. «You are right-Handed, ja? Then I believe we will place it behind your left Shoulder. If it is seen, you can always blame us for it and claim to have escaped from one of our Camps. It will be very awkward for you, though, should a Guard ask to check it against your Papers.»

Hogan shrugged. «I'll just get very good at stripping out of my Shirt. It'll be cold in the Winter, but it'll work.»

«Hmmm.» Mannheim sat silent for several moments, trying to think his way around that inconvenience. He had retrieved his glass from his companion; now he held it out toward Hogan in a wordless appeal for a refill. His eye followed of its own volition as the American crossed the room to the sideboard, to the crystal decanter. He watched as the stopper was pulled and the amber liquid poured out, momentarily highlighting his family's coat of arms etched into the side of the fine crystal.

His coat of arms.

«That's it!» he cried, sitting up straight and coming to his feet in one smooth motion. His briefcase, where was it? Ah, yes, over by the writing desk, _natürlich._ A moment's search, the removal of a piece of stationery; then, «Rob, how do you feel about a second Tattoo? Artwork, this Time.»

«What did you have in Mind?» Hogan half expected to find Mannheim drawing something, but instead a sheet of paper was being held out towards him. He looked down to see a colored imprint of a coat of arms. His gaze snapped up in sudden comprehension. «Yours? Where? More importantly, how?»

«In a Circle instead of a Shield, like a Badge or Medallion. To go on the back of, oh, perhaps your left Arm.»

«With a Band going around the Arm, like a Bracelet, » Hogan completed the thought, his eyes actually lighting up as he worked out the picture in his mind.

«Chain Links, yes, I believe that would be appropriate,» Mannheim nodded in approval. «I do not believe that anyone outside Germany will draw the Connection to me. No Guard of mine would mistake it, though.»

«Heck, put it on my Uniform Sleeve, too. That way I won't get harassed by the Guards down around my Cell anymore, either.»

Mannheim stopped suddenly, looking Hogan over from head to toe. He was still in British RAF dress blues, from dinner in the mess, complete with his old rank tabs. «Yes, your Uniforms,» he finally drawled out. «We will have to do something about those, too, once we return to Camp. Which, by the way, we will do, once you wear your Number. Tomorrow Morning, I think; I have much Work to do there, also, which was put on hold while I...acquired you, shall we say. I hope you enjoy Paperwork, Rob, for we three shall find ourselves deeply buried in it, once we return.»

«Three?»

«_Ja: _You, me, and poor Leutnant Weber. Misery does like Company, after all. And there will be more than enough to go around for all of us, for quite some Time to come. _Then_ you may fly again.»

It was strange, Hogan thought, how that thought brightened the night and made everything else worth suffering through.

To fly again.

**A/N: **While the show and other POW movies did not make this apparent, it was common practice of the Germans during WW II to send enlisted men out on work details. This was in accordance with the provisions of the Geneva Convention, to wit: Enlisted men could be required to work, so long as it did not support the German war effort. Many of these men did not even stay at their "main Stalags," but lived at or near their job sites. In this AU, British and Commonwealth troops were not routinely used that way until this point in history.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3**

They did not leave Berlin the next day as Mannheim had hoped they would. In a sense, that was Hogan's fault, though not over anything he'd actually done.

0730: The rattle of keys at the cell door announced the start of a new day for Rob Hogan. He rolled over to face the door, wondering if this would be breakfast, or new trouble for the general to get him out of. Amazing how trouble could still find him, even locked away in a secure cell. He didn't have to do a thing, either.

This time, however, it was breakfast, carried in by the young corporal, who was followed by Lt. Weber, the general's aide.

_"Guten Morgen, _Hogan," the young staff officer greeted his new---well, he supposed he should consider him a companion. Or perhaps 'colleague' would be better? He was, like the _leutnant,_ one of the general's men now. Mentally, the German shrugged. He'd sort it out later.

_"'Morgen, Herr Leutnant,"_ Hogan replied with careful courtesy. He hadn't had a chance to test these waters yet, but there was no sense in antagonizing the man. He would be expected to work with him, after all, and he still wasn't sure exactly what his status was with regards to the rest of Mannheim's staff.

He could see that the formality and politeness had pleased the young _offizier,_ for a wide smile lit up his face. _"Ich heiße Karl Weber. _We will be working together, _nicht wahr?_ And you had the rank on me..." Uncertainty showed on the young man's face now, for he didn't really know this American at all, except by reputation.

Clearly the young officer's English wasn't quite as good as Mannheim's, to judge by his frequent reverting to German. Hogan shook his head in answer to his last comment. "They've stripped me of my rank - Look, we're dancing around each other and getting nowhere. How about you just call me 'Hogan' in public and 'Rob' in private, like the general does?"

"I would be pleased to do so. You will call me Karl, _ja?"_

With a sigh, Hogan looked over at Weber with his trademark grin. "Sure. Just don't let anyone else clock me for disrespect, okay? Except for the general, of course." That got a laugh, and Hogan decided that the lieutenant had a good laugh: honest, not forced.

_"Nein,_ none will misuse _you,_ I think," Karl laughed back, then sobered with regret. "Best eat; we will have a busy day. You are expected by the _Doktor_ in less than an hour."

_"Doktor?"_

_"Ja."_ Weber seemed uncomfortable now, looking anywhere except at the American. "It is for..."

"The Number," Hogan finished, capitalizing the word. He actually felt sorrier for the lieutenant then he did for himself at the moment. "C'mon, cheer up. I'm the one that's supposed to be upset over this, not you. _You're_ supposed to be laughing over putting me in my place, not wearing a long face."

_"Hogan, das ist nicht richtig!_ It is not right to treat a man like....like...like an animal!" Weber exploded, angered beyond common sense.

"Karl, calm down, or you'll get yourself into more trouble than anyone could get you out of," Hogan advised, all signs of levity gone now. "Getting upset won't do me any good. Besides, it's all how you look at it. You're seeing this as something degrading, and it could easily be just that. I'm seeing it more like a 'get out of jail free' card, and a great big 'no trespassing' sign---or, 'do not beat the animals.'" Good, he thought, seeing that the joking had Karl beginning to relax once more. "General Mannheim is actually being as considerate of my feelings as he can afford to be," he went on. "Besides, even you have to admit, it sure beats a firing squad."

_"Ja, R-rob,"_ Karl reluctantly agreed, stumbling over Hogan's name. "You make sense. But come. Eat, or we will be late. The _Doktor_ can be...well, it is best not to be late."

"Uniform of the day?" Hogan asked as he began to clean up his plate.

"British undress, according to _unser General._ We have more to do, you and I, after the hospital."

"The general's not going with me?" Hogan was surprised to realize that he was being allowed out in only the company of Weber.

_"Nein,_ he is tied up in meetings. All day, so he will be in a fine temper tonight. He _hates_ nailing down stupid details, just to satisfy some _idiot_ who looks always through a magnifying glass for something to complain about."

"Well, I'm ready whenever you are," Hogan announced, causing Karl to look up in surprise. The younger officer had been so busy complaining himself that he hadn't noticed when the American had gotten dressed. He had the grace to blush, Hogan saw, but chose not to comment on it - he would have to work with the man for the foreseeable future and did not want his enmity on top of everything else.

_"Sehr gut,"_ _Leutnant_ Weber gratefully let the topic pass, too, motioning towards the cell door. He was confused when Hogan stopped at the door and turned to face him, offering both wrists.

"Manacles?" Hogan asked.

"Why? You do not need them," Weber began to protest, but Hogan shook his head.

"Think, Karl. I have no number yet. I _do_ have a lot of detractors, if not downright enemies. General Mannheim can get away with parading me around without restraints, but I don't think you have enough rank to stand up to, say, some colonel with a grudge to settle with me. I can stand a little more time in cuffs for some extra safety."

"Ah, you are right, Hogan," Karl sadly acknowledged, "and _I_ am a soft-hearted fool. But then, you would not try..." He paused, unsure how to phrase his concern without giving offense.

"Try to escape, or attack you," Hogan helpfully finished for him. "Of course not. I gave my parole, and you wouldn't be here without the proper authorization. Oh, I might have, once, but it wouldn't serve any purpose now. So. We don't want to be late, remember?"

_"Nein,_ we do _not_ want to be late. But you will have to wait for the cuffs, Hogan. We must go outside, and it is cold. You will need your coat, which is in the guard-room. Then I will put on the cuffs, _ja?"_ Karl managed a grin, turning it into a chuckle at Hogan's dramatic sigh of defeat. Together, they walked down the hall. As they proceeded, Weber's grin turned into a puzzled look. "Hogan," he asked, "what is a 'get out of jail free' card?"

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

It wasn't a long walk, but Hogan was grateful for the coat, because the temperature had plummeted. The climate inside the hospital building was even colder, to judge from the lack of compassion in the workers' eyes. He'd never cared for hospitals in the first place, but he'd be _really_ glad when he could escape this one, he decided. He showed none of his discomfort, though, walking relaxed at his escort's side. He stood back as Lt. Weber asked at the desk for the location of the correct department; the private on duty there sneered at Hogan and made a disparaging remark to the girl who sat at the desk behind him. She laughed at his comment, but there was no joy in that laughter, only contempt. His cell had more personality, Hogan thought as he walked away with Weber.

The _Doktor_ snarled at them when they arrived, even though they were early by the wall clock. «Get that Coat off him, then get him in here,» he snapped, turning and stalking into an inner room. Two burly guards moved in on Hogan, but Karl waved them back. «You will not need Force; he will not fight this,» he protested in alarm.

One of the guards snorted in disbelief, but both backed away, giving this young snip of a _leutnant_ room to prove his assertion. He did seem to know his prisoner, for the man in the RAF uniform stood quietly while his manacles were unlocked, then calmly removed his coat.

«Here are his Papers,» Karl said, handing a packet over to the pretty girl sitting at the desk. She took out one form from the pile and handed it to the shorter of the two guards, then turned to smile back at the young man wearing a staff officer's aiguillette.

"Be out in a few, _Herr Leutnant,"_ Hogan promised as he walked between the two surprised guards towards the inner room, reaching to unbutton his uniform tunic as he went. Karl threw a grateful glance at him, then turned to talk to the girl, who seemed just as glad for the attention.

The peace shattered inside the second room.

«What is he doing?» growled _Herr Doktor,_ his eyes snapping hatefully at the unrestrained prisoner. «Just push his Sleeve up and hold him down! » He looked at the papers long enough to get the correct number, but looked no further; as far as he was concerned, that was all the interest the war's losers deserved.

Hogan backed away, ducking as the guards made a grab for him. «Hang on there, _Herr Doktor!» _he protested, panic rising. «It doesn't go...»

«_Hold him!»_ the _Doktor_ yelled, cutting off any possible explanation. The guards grabbed hold, but Hogan struggled frantically, all the while trying to explain.

"_Halt!"_ Karl barked as he burst into the room. He'd known that there had to be a problem, for Hogan had been resigned to this earlier; he would have struggled only if given cause. «Release him; he will not fight you if you do not force him.»

«They're going for my Arm, _Leutnant,»_ Hogan gasped out, letting them get a hold on him, since Weber had ordered all to stop.

«That is where the numbers go,» the _Doktor_ snapped back, reaching for Hogan's arm once more.

«_His_ does not,» Weber insisted, stepping between the _Doktor_ and his intended victim. «You will destroy his value to _mein General_ Mannheim; do you wish to join the fighting in the East, _Herr Doktor?»_

The man froze, his eyes grown even colder than before, his jaw clenching, along with his fists. «What do you mean?» he managed to grate out.

«It is the Order of _mein General_ that this man be tattooed on the Back. This is specified on his Papers, which you hold, _Herr Doktor._ Hogan knows this. He will not fight the placement there, for those are his Orders, also, to accept that.

«Release him,» Weber ordered the guards, more certainty in his voice than he actually felt. His confidence grew as the two men obeyed, letting Hogan's arms go as if they were red hot. He watched in silence as the American removed his tunic and sweater, then turned his back to the _Doktor,_ sitting on a handy stool. He said not a word, too busy controlling the tremors of excess adrenaline.

Again the _Doktor_ started towards him, his equipment in his hands and an ugly scowl on his face.

Again Karl stopped him. «You will _not_ treat him roughly, _Herr Doktor,»_ he warned. «I will report you to General Mannheim if you cause him excessive discomfort. He is cooperative; you will treat him accordingly.»

For all the prior uproar, it was done quickly. Hogan remained silent as he dressed, carefully avoiding the gaze of the guards and the _Doktor,_ to whom he could not bring himself to apply the English word, the man being far too reminiscent of some of those employed by the Gestapo and the SS. These men had no idea who he was; he was just defeated Allied scum to them - or, at least, to the _Doktor._ He donned his coat and followed his escort out of the office just as silently.

"Hogan, are you all right?" Weber asked in concern, once the office door was securely shut behind them.

"Fine, except for an urge to do murder," Hogan retorted, obviously losing the battle with his temper.

"Gently, _mein Freund,"_ Weber soothed. "We are not safe home yet, and still there is much we must do. Breathe deeply and let this go, or you will lose the ground you've gained."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Hogan muttered, adding a few choice words about the hypothetical ancestry of that _Doktor._

_"Komm' mit, _Hogan," Weber ordered, his voice still calm and reasonable. Still, it was an order; Hogan obeyed out of his new-formed habit. The cold air outside had a further calming affect on the still-outraged American, or perhaps, mused Karl, it was merely the increasing distance from the hospital that helped. Whatever the reason, he was relieved to see Hogan relax as they walked, now heading towards the nearby shops and their next set of errands.

Several times military police stopped them, checking Hogan's papers carefully, but they grew polite at their first glance inside. One went so far as to order Hogan to expose his arm; fortunately, he accepted Weber's explanation for the lack of a tattoo there. They were allowed to step into the store they were then passing before Hogan was asked to remove his coat and show the number; this he did with good grace, for he'd been asked much more politely than he'd expected. Mannheim's name on those papers had wrought a minor miracle, or so it seemed.

Finally, they came to a group of tailors' shops, busy with German officers seemingly grouped by service branch. Weber left Hogan outside one smaller shop for several moments while he ducked inside to pick up a small package. Several passers-by eyed Hogan warily, but his escort reappeared before anyone could start anything. Further down the row, they entered a shop that had several _Heer_ uniforms on display. Hogan wondered at that, seeing that they'd passed at least two shops showing _Luftwaffe_ uniforms. He went with his escort without question, though, assuming that Karl knew where he was supposed to be.

An older man hurried over to greet them. «_Guten Tag, Herr Leutnant. _How may I be of assistance?» he asked, trying not to look too obviously at the officer in RAF uniform who waited beside the younger German.

«I am Leutnant Weber, Aide to General Mannheim. I believe you are expecting me today?»

«Oh, _ja, __Herr Leutnant,»_ the old tailor exclaimed, understanding now why the General had placed such an odd order: A _Heer_ uniform, done in the blue cloth of the _Luftwaffe._ This would be for the RAF man, a Colonel, if he read the rank tabs correctly. He would be an American, not an Englander as his current uniform suggested. «And this is who it is for, _Herr Leutnant?»_ he asked, wanting to be certain, for it was still rank folly to make assumptions even in these more peaceful days.

«_Ja, __Herr_ Drapner; this is Hogan, who is bonded now to _mein General,»_Weber replied, then turned to Hogan himself. _"Herr _Drapneris_ unser General's_ own tailor, Rob. You can trust yourself to his work," he added in English.

"I'm not complaining, Karl," Hogan returned, following the young German's lead for informal mode. "I'm a bit surprised, though. I half-expected a _Luftwaffe-_style uniform of some sort, since I was RAF."

_"Ja,_ you were," Weber answered with an understanding nod. "But _unser General_ started as _Heer,_ then went into _Abwehr,_ before finally going to the Inspector General's office. So his uniforms are all _Heer-_cut. So will yours be, as bondsman to him. He gives you _Luftwaffe_ cloth, though."

"Just wondering," Hogan acknowledged the explanation, then turned and bowed his head to the waiting tailor. «Mein Herr_, _I place myself in your capable Hands.»

"You vill _komm'_ dis vay, pleess," the man said in halting English, indicating a curtained room toward the back.

Hogan smiled at his effort, shaking his head even as he went where directed. «Please, HerrDrapner, I speak German quite well. You do not need to trouble yourself on my account.»

«Ah, good_,_» the old man sighed. «I am too old to learn new Tricks. But come; I have several sets basted for you. Your general said that you were a 40 regular, is that not so_ ?»_

_«_Yes, that's correct, although they'll hang rather loosely now. But you said 'several sets'? What did he order, anyway?»

«I will leave you room for some weight-gain, but they will not sit right if I do not - oh, you know this, do you? Verygood_._ Well, then, this is what was ordered: You are being set up with an Officer's basic issue, plus a Full Dress set, all minus rank Tabs---Is that correct? Should you not show the Tabs of an _Oberst, mein Herr?»_

Hogan smiled gently at the old man's confusion. _«_No; I am not permitted any Rank. But it is no matter; I have learned to be content just to live and to have Work to do.»

_«Oh, ja,_ there is Work to do, but there are too few Hands to do it now,» the old man complained as he steadily worked, adjusting the uniform with skilled hands. «I have more Work than I can do now. Where can I find help? All the young Men are _in_ Uniforms, not _making_ them.»

«True enough,» Hogan agreed, then paused as he thought furiously. «Help. Maybe - Tell me, HerrDrapner,would you be willing to take in semi-trained Help? I know of some Men who can sew and tailor somewhat, but...»

«Men can be trained,» the tailor declared, wondering where those men would come from. "Where would I find such, Herr Hogan_?_ Do you know how much I would have to pay them?»

«Please, HerrDrapner, just 'Hogan,' if you would.» He didn't like it, but he'd actually had the opportunity to read some of the regulations that pertained to the bondsmen and knew, now, that people could actually get into trouble for being too polite to one of them if someone overheard and objected. _Talk about being a second-class citizen,_ he thought in disgust. But there was no sense in letting this old guy slip into the habit. «The Men, though...well, I guess you'd have to call General Mannheim's Office. They were POWs, you see. If you don't mind working with someone like me, I used to know Men who could do a very good Job with scavenged Cloth. Given _good_ Material to work with, I think you'd be pleased with the results.» Hogan straightened as he spoke, suiting his posture to the uniform being fitted, knowing how he would have to stand and move in it, much to the surprise of the little tailor.

«You have worn such before?» the tailor asked in amazement. «But, how?»

Hogan looked around for Karl, mumbling, _"Eine moment, bitte." _Ah, there he was. "Karl, how much can I tell people who ask about my checkered past?" he called in English.

Weber wandered over, critically examining the cut of the tunic as he thought. "The general did not say, Rob---Do you know, you look good in German uniform."

"Yeah, the _fr__äulein_s all thought so, too," Hogan couldn't help smirking. "A fringe benefit." He turned back to the tailor and grinned. «I wore it when I wasn't supposed to, HerrDrapner, and now I am paying for my Sins.»

«I will talk to General Mannheim's People, as you suggest,» Drapner said, deciding that he really didn't want to know anything more about Hogan in German uniform. «But here, now, try the Coat. I do not think it will need any work; it is supposed to be somewhat loose.»

Hogan gazed in wonder at it, at the ample folds of warm wool, brand new, and all for him: a German officer's greatcoat. He needed no more urging to put it on, luxuriating in the warmth as he remembered all the mornings he stood shivering in the cold for _Appell_. How he had envied Klink that coat he wore, him and all the others who'd stood there warm, while he and his men froze. He would be warm now, but what about his men? Guilt drove the joy from his heart, and it showed.

_«_Was ist los_? _You do not like it?» The tailor was aghast. What would General Mannheim say if the work was not acceptable?

«No; be easy, _Herr_ Drapner,» Weber said, accurately interpreting Hogan's reaction. «The Work is fine, and he is pleased; I think he just remembers those who have not such fine Clothes.»

"The coat, Karl," Hogan said in English, his voice low, almost inaudible. Then he turned and looked Mannheim's aide in the eye and continued, his voice rising with his agitation. "It's the coat. Do you have any idea how many mornings my men nearly froze, how many men all over Germany died in prison camps, due to lack of adequate clothing? You tell me what I did to deserve this now!"

"Gently, Rob; you will frighten the tailor." Karl hoped that such an appeal might settle his charge...yes, he calmed. Good. "What is _deserved_ has nothing to do with this. It is what was _ordered._ And the men who are left here _will_ have better care now. You know that _unser General_ will see to that; already he has removed one who abused his charges, and had him shot. The men will be fed and clothed, Rob. Not at this level, most likely, but better than they have been. You do not help them by going without; that would only anger the general, and _that_ could actually hurt the rest. And as you say, you pay now for your sins; perhaps you also get earned rewards, _ja?"_ Then he turned back to the tailor. «Now, _Herr_ Drapner, you will take these,» he handed over the small bag he'd picked up earlier. «They are to go on the left Sleeve of the Tunics and Jackets, so.» He demonstrated on his own arm. «Also on the Greatcoat.»

The little man looked through the bag's contents, nodding. _«_Ja_,_ I see. These are of several weights; some for Shirts, too, ja_?»_

_«Ja;_ I will have the Shirts sent to you," the aide responded. «All can be sent to General Mannheim's Quarters at one time, when they are ready. Hogan can survive another Day or so with his old Uniforms.»

«I will send a Set of undress Uniforms as soon as they are ready,» the old man corrected, for he had seen a look of distaste cross the American's face at the mention of his old uniforms. «That way, you can check the fit one last time before all is done. By late this Afternoon, you will have that much, and the Coat, for it is cold early this Year.» He turned away from his customers then, gathering up the marked clothing and retreating into the back of his shop.

Hogan couldn't help himself; he laughed at the look of surprise on Weber's face. "Told _you,_ didn't he?" At the sour look he got back, he just shook his head. "Let it go, Karl. He's old and entitled to some temper. That's a lot of work we just dumped on him. Hope he calls the office to get some help; some of our guys did really good work."

_"Ja,_ you are right again, Rob," Karl finally agreed with a sigh. "But come; we must still get you shirts, and underwear, and boots..."

Yes, Hogan thought with his own sigh, it was going to be a _long_ day, for all of them.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

New shirts were just the beginning. Socks and underwear quickly followed; Hogan began to worry over the size of the bill Mannheim would be receiving on his account. So it was that his fertile mind hit upon one way, at least, to save some marks.

"Boots," Weber stated wearily, naming their next objective.

"Hold on, Karl," Hogan ordered, using the familiar mode to soften the command. "Tell me this, first: Do they still have all our stuff from _Stalag_ 13 somewhere accessible?"

_"Was?"_ The young lieutenant abruptly halted, looking at his companion in total confusion.

"Our stuff. There were uniforms and a lot of other clothes there. I had a good pair of boots. They were comfortable, all broken in. Why should the general have to buy new ones when I already have a good pair?"

"Why would you have...Oh." The German fell silent, embarrassed by his momentary lack of understanding. It would have been completely unreasonable for any other American to have such things, but Hogan and his men were known to have had an extensive cache of German uniforms and civilian clothes. This obviously would have had to include boots, and they would have had to be in good condition to be convincing. _"Ja,_ I think so," Karl began to answer, his own mind working now. "They would be in impound, from trial evidence, if they have not been released yet. And I have a friend who works there," he finished in triumph as he remembered being told this, one night over drinks.

"What say we go and check, then?" Hogan urged, thinking now of other things that might still be there, free for the taking of those in the know. "We can always buy new ones if my old ones are gone, or if you think they're in too bad shape."

"They were a good fit?" Karl asked, thinking of the one pair of what he thought of as The Boots From Hell, for they had never broken in right.

"Like they'd been made for me," Hogan assured him, then paused. "Do we have time?"

"We have all day," Weber told him, grinning hugely. _"Unser General_ knew we would have to go all over town; I even have a pass, should we be out past your curfew. Let us not waste time, though; I do not wish to strain General Mannheim's tolerance."

"Great; let's go. We can eat somewhere after that, maybe? I'm getting hungry."

_"Ja._ You are out more today than you have been for months, it seems. We will go; this way, Hogan."

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

Like most evidence rooms, this one was in the bowels of the building. _Oberfeldwebel_ Horst Borgmann was bored, the only duty officer at the sign-out desk. He'd prowled around the many tagged items until he knew where everything was and could have laid hand on anything requested in his sleep---those things that he could identify. This last lot of contraband had been intriguing; it had kept him entertained for nearly the last month as he'd tried to puzzle out what some of the strange contraptions were and how they were used. They had been confiscated from a POW camp, he knew; there had been a huge trial of saboteurs from there. Oddly, however, no one had come down to requisition any of the items that he now guarded. This had never happened before; usually, things were thrust before the accused in an attempt to wring or surprise some admission of guilt from him. He had heard, though, that there had been a confession from the accused in this case - so thorough a confession that the trial had been a mere formality.

Two men came down the dimly lit corridor towards his station, and he looked up to study them. One was a stranger in an RAF uniform; a colonel, if he was not mistaken. The other was a German lieutenant, and Horst felt his face break into a smile at seeing his childhood friend, before military discipline closed it down again. He rose to salute this superior officer, not really minding having to do so, since his friend did not stand on ceremony once they were off duty.

Weber returned the salute, then grinned widely. _"Hallo, Horst; wie gehts?"_ he called as he came to a halt before the desk. «This is actually an unofficial Visit,» he added, to explain the informality. «Tell me, do you still have the Contraband gathered from Stalag 13?»

_«You_ know about that? Ah, yes, you would, wouldn't you?» Horst laughed at his own foolishness. «Yes, it is still here. How did the Trial go, anyway?» he couldn't keep himself from inquiring. To his surprise, it was the dark-haired RAF colonel who answered his question.

«Oh, they found me guilty, of course,» he declared in an off-handed manner. «It was all they could do, considering the Detail in my Confession.» Hogan managed not to laugh at the confusion on the young sergeant's face. «They commuted my Sentence from a Firing Squad to lifetime servitude.

«Do you still have my Jackboots?»

«Rob, do not be cruel,» Weber admonished with a laugh, then turned to his friend. «Horst, let me make known to you former Colonel Robert E. Hogan, called PAPA BEAR. Rob, this is my long-time Friend Horst Borgmann.»

«Pleased to meet you,» Hogan said, extending a hand toward the poleaxed sergeant. The man shook hands, but it was obvious that his body was flying on autopilot now.

«PAPA...?!!» Sgt. Borgmann gasped out finally, momentarily turning shocked eyes to his friend, then back to this dangerous criminal. «Karl, what are you doing wandering around with PAPA BEAR? They will shoot you if you are caught!» He was scrabbling at his holstered pistol even as he spoke.

Hogan was careful to make no move that might be considered threatening.

«Gently, my Brother,» Karl soothed, one hand over that of his friend, keeping the pistol in its holster. «It is known that he is with me; those are our Orders. He will not attempt Escape or attack anyone now. He is one of the Bonded Ones. You have heard of those?»

_"Ja."_ Still uncertain, Borgmann finally turned his eyes back to this friend-turned-stranger.

«Hogan is bonded to General Mannheim now; he is safe. Relax, my Friend; we break no Rules here. I am charged with outfitting him for Service, so we are all over Berlin today.»

«But why here?»

«He had Boots that fit well, among the confiscated Uniforms - _You_ know how hard it is to get good Boots, and they are very expensive now. Do you still have them?»

«There are several Pairs...Where did the Uniforms come from?» Horst's curiosity was finally getting the better of him as he grew to accept the other German's reassurances. But Karl just turned and raised an eyebrow at the RAF---No, the _Amerikaner Offizier._

Hogan laughed as he answered. «Some were 'liberated;' hence the mended Tears. Most were made out of salvaged or stolen Cloth by my Men, though. They did really good Work; I was very proud of them.»

«And _you_ wore these?» Horst inquired, knowing that he should not talk to this man, but he was unable to help himself.

«Oh, yeah. We went out a lot---out of Camp, that is. We had Tunnels. Had to have Uniforms if we were going to blend in. We drove old Hochstetter crazy; he was so sure we..._I_ was involved in all the Sabotage in our Area, but he could never prove a thing. Mannheim was the only one smart enough to actually catch us at it.» Hogan's voice trailed off a bit, but he sighed and shook his head. Regret was a useless waste of energy; he had to remember to be grateful that the firing squad had been cancelled.

«Hochstetter...He was Gestapo,» Borgmann recalled, his voice thoughtful.

«That's right. We used to dress up as SS or Gestapo and go right into Gestapo Headquarters in Hammelburg and Düsseldorf to break People out of the Cells there. Should still be a couple of old SS Uniforms in the lot.»

«Ja; those have much Dust on them, though.»

«Well, we couldn't very well wear them once the Gestapo was disbanded, now, could we? That would've been a great way to get ourselves arrested,» Hogan snorted in disgust at the obviousness of that fact, but his expression softened somewhat as he took in the embarrassment shown by the young sergeant. «Those Uniforms always made me feel unclean, somehow, once I got them off again. They _did_ look sharp, though.»

Weber was studying Hogan as he spoke; now, his own voice was thoughtful. «You would have looked good in one, with your coloring, Rob. But that is why you learned to carry yourself correctly, _nicht wahr?»_

«Yeah. No one ever recognized us, either. Carter and Newkirk routinely dressed as Germans, too, you know. LeBeau, too, although he was so short, he looked like a Kid dressing up as a Storm Trooper.» Hogan chuckled at that memory, mellowed by the thought of that ludicrous sight.

«Would you show me? I have seen you in the bond Uniforms, but...» Weber let his voice trail off, uncertain how the American would receive this request. To his great relief, Hogan grinned, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

«Which one? The SS Colonel? I did some of my best---or worst, depending on your point of view---work in that one.» Hogan sounded like a kid now, enthused at playing dress-up.

_«Ja,_ that one,» Horst agreed quickly. «I will bring it to you.»

«Forty regular, Oberfeldwebel,» Hogan called after him. «And bring my Boots.»

When the clothing arrived, he turned away to change into the black uniform, knowing they wouldn't get the full effect unless... «Was there a small metal Case back there with these, full of Makeup? I'll need that, too, to do this right,» he said, turning back as he tied his necktie. «There're a lot of People who'd have a fit seeing this, General Mannheim included. You know, you both met me once, at a Party. I had gray Hair and a Moustache that Night. Wanna see?»

_«_Ja,_» _Karl said thoughtfully. «I thought there was something familiar about you, but I could never say where or when...»

«Here; is this the Box?» Horst interrupted, pushing forth a small metal-bound case, much dinged around the edges.

«Yup, that's Newkirk's makeup Kit. He taught me how to do this,» Hogan continued speaking even as he opened the case and began to apply the cosmetics, «although he always did a better Job than me. He used to do some Theater, before the War.» He finally peered critically into the small mirror affixed to the inside of the lid, then nodded in satisfaction. He shrugged into the black uniform jacket, then straightened and turned, putting on SS Oberführer Hoganberg.

Instinctively, reflexively, the two Germans before him snapped to attention, faces tight with fear, until they remembered that it was still just the American, Hogan.

_«Mein Gott,_ Rob, you are frightening like that!» Karl gasped, color finally returning to his face.

_«That_ was Oberführe_r_ Hoganberg; remember him now?» Hogan asked, his voice gone soft.

_«Ja,_ I do. So would _unser General,_ were he to see you now.»

«Can you wait?» Borgmann suddenly asked. «I have a Camera at the Desk, I think.»

«All right,» Hogan agreed with a smile. «You can send a Copy to the General; that oughtta give him a sleepless Night or two, just from Embarrassment.» He laughed again and started to prowl the room while he waited. Weber wasn't watching him at all, he noticed; the young lieutenant was busy with his own explorations. On a whim, Hogan began to check out some of their hidden stashes of escape money---It was there! Quickly, he shoved wads of Deutschmarks into his pockets. No one had checked these everyday items to see if there was anything hidden within them---though the hiding places had been cleverly concealed, so they probably wouldn't have found them even if they had checked.

He had only been through part of the stash when he heard the _oberfeldwebel_ return and had to stop for the pictures.

Eventually, he'd posed in every uniform variation that he'd ever used; Mannheim would definitely get an eyeful when those pictures arrived. He spent a bit more time explaining the functions of some of the odder pieces of equipment kept there. He indicated a charred wooden box on one shelf. «That was a 'Gonculator.' It started life as a Rabbit Trap Carter built---see the slots for the Ears? It was Carter; what can I tell you?» he added to Karl at the incredulous looks he got over the ear-slots. «Anyway, we needed to smuggle out an Electronics Expert, so we stuck all these spare Radio parts on it...» He lifted a bit more cash out of hiding, still unnoticed. «You should have seen everybody tripping over each other to avoid admitting they didn't know what the heck a Gonculator was!»

«So how did you get the Man out?» Borgmann asked when he and Weber had managed to stop laughing.

«Well, since we didn't bother making the Circuits properly, everything just kind of went bang and burned up when they turned it on; that's why the Box is charred. We slipped him down to the Tunnel under cover of the Smoke and left a torn-up Uniform lying charred on the Floor. When the Smoke cleared, we let the Hotshots believe that was all there was left of the Guy.»

Laughter overtook the two Germans once again.

As they caught their breath, one last thought crossed Hogan's crooked mind. «You still have my .45?» he asked, seeing the sergeant straighten in surprise. «I want it. _And_ my Luger.» After all, he reasoned, if you were going to make impossible demands, you might as well make them big ones.

«But...But Hogan, I cannot give you Weapons!» Horst protested. «I could be shot, or sent to the Eastern Front!»

Hogan pursued it, for he had suddenly realized that it was actually important to him. «Why not? The General's given me back nearly all of my other Stuff already. I'm gonna be flying him around in his Airplane, for Pete's sake! Why shouldn't I have my Pistols back? I never shot anyone who wasn't already shooting at me---well, _almost_ never, anyway,» he quickly amended.

This was suddenly going badly, Karl realized, for Hogan had gotten a stubborn look in his eyes that the German was coming to recognize. He'd better end this confrontation fast, and there was only one foolproof way. «Rob, why don't we ask General Mannheim later Tonight? Horst can lock them up somewhere safe until we know; that way, no one else will take them. You know the Serial Numbers, _ja?_

«You can put them aside for now, can't you, Horst?»

_«Ja, _that would be best,» the sergeant agreed quickly, for he, too, had read the danger signs.

«At the worst,» Karl added, «perhaps the General will keep them locked up somewhere for you, so no one else could take them away, if you cannot have them yourself.»

Hogan took a deep breath to get himself under control once more. _Real smart, Rob-boy,_ he sneered at himself. _Just settle down!_ «Yeah; that'll do. Here's the Numbers,» he added, writing them down from memory, to no one's surprise.

«We'd better go,» Karl suggested, for they'd indulged themselves far too long here. «You still need to be fitted for your Flight Suit.»

«You're right; it _is_ getting late,» Hogan agreed, his mood restored somewhat. «Good to have met you, Oberfeldwebel_._ At least now you can prove you've really met PAPA BEAR,» he added with a laugh, gathering up his boots. He straightened himself, clicked his heels German-style and bowed in farewell, then followed his keeper-for-the-day out, into the dim hallway once more.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4**

Hogan was getting used to the odd looks he drew as they walked down the street. There was more traffic now; more people were out as lunch time drew near. It served to remind him of the empty state of his own stomach, and he grinned. "_Leutnant_ Weber," he called softly, drawing Karl's surprised gaze. "D'you think we might have a spot of lunch? I find myself feeling a bit peckish," he explained in his best British accent, which, as Newkirk had been at pains to inform him, was not good at all. It did make the German laugh, drawing even more disapproving looks their way.

_"Ja, _Hogan; we can eat. I, too, am hungry," Karl agreed, damping his laughter. "I know a good place, not too expensive, but the food is plentiful."

Hogan's grin widened, a devilish light in his eyes. "Nah. How 'bout someplace _good,_ someplace you wouldn't normally be able to go on a junior lieutenant's pay? It's my treat," he added, waiting for the objections and demands for explanation.

"And where would you get that sort of money?" Weber began, as expected, only to pause and begin to look panicked. "Hogan, what did you do...?"

"Calm down, Karl. I haven't done anything. We had some funds stashed," Hogan explained, his voice soft so as not to carry beyond themselves. "I just liberated a bit of it."

"From Impound."

"Well, yeah. It's all real currency, though; none of the counterfeit stuff. Don't worry; no one'll miss it. They didn't even realize it was there," Hogan soothed, thoroughly enjoying himself.

"Hogan!" Weber protested, his voice a low cry.

The American's grin only widened. "Now you sound just like Sgt. Schultz used to," he chuckled gently; then his grin softened a bit. "Y'know, I miss the old guy. He really did mean well. Seriously, Karl," he returned to the topic, "it's okay. I'll 'fess up to General Mannheim tonight. It's just nice to have some money of my own for a while, y'know? And it's not like it's stolen or anything. Newkirk won most of it from the guards during those forbidden card games in the barracks."

"Hogan!" Karl repeated, this time laughing in protest at his outrageous companion. "You are incorrigible!

"Here; we go in here," he added, indicating an expensive-looking tailoring shop they'd just reached, catering to the Luftwaffe.

"Hogan?!" a familiar-sounding voice echoed from within the shop. "They haven't shot you yet?"

Hogan looked around alertly, then grinned at the surprise on the face of the portly German he found. "Why, General Burkhalter; what a surprise. Good to see you, sir." He knew better than to add insult to this meeting, so he refrained from offering his hand.

"What are you doing loose in Berlin, Hogan?" Burkhalter would not be sidetracked.

"I'm not loose, sir. This is _Leutnant_ Weber, General Mannheim's aide. He's my escort today."

"I did hear something about General Mannheim, but I did not believe it." Burkhalter pursed his lips, staring thoughtfully at the American officer.

Whatever he'd meant to say next was lost as the shop's owner hurried over. «What is this Trash doing in here?» he demanded angrily. «You are its Keeper, I hear, Herr Leutnant_;_ remove it immediately!»

«You will not speak of a defeated enemy Officer that way in my presence, Herr Ostlinger! Especially not _this_ one!» the outraged General snapped.

«I will not permit such Scum in my Shop!» Ostlinger insisted, feeling that all Germans - the Master Race, after all - should stand together against such defeated weaklings. «Those Animals, those _Cowards,_ are not welcome here!»

«You had best understand that Defeat does not automatically make a Man a Coward.» Burkhalter's voice grew softer, a sure sign that he was about to explode. «And this man never stopped fighting until his _Side_ capitulated, despite being a Prisoner. But, since you do not feel his Custom is desirable, I am sure that he will be very happy to leave, won't you, Hogan? _As will I!_ Good Day, Herr Ostlinger. Be sure that I will inform my Friends, also.

«Hogan, _Leutnant_ Weber, _komm' mit.»_

Both men gaped as Burkhalter stormed out of the shop, but they quickly followed him out into the street, where they nearly ran into him, for he had waited just outside the door. Already the extreme redness was fading from his face, for he was a man who calmed as quickly as he became angered. Weber was wary, uncertain of what to expect from this Luftwaffe stranger, but Hogan seemed completely at his ease.

"So, tell me, Hogan," Burkhalter nearly purred, an unexpected sound from such a large man, "what _are_ you doing, wandering around Berlin? I had heard several days ago that you were to be shot."

"Actually, that's true," Hogan admitted easily. "General Mannheim decided that I might be more useful as his personal pilot, and whatever else he needed, than as a target for riflemen who needed no practice. As he said, he can always have me shot later if I irritate him too much." He allowed himself a slight smile at that, for General Burkhalter, one of his personal enemies for so long, actually laughed in appreciation at that statement. "The lieutenant here is taking me around to get kitted out, on the General's orders," he went on. "I'm not sure why we were at this particular shop, though; I already have uniforms on order from _Herr_ Drapner's shop."

"You need flight suits, Hogan," Weber volunteered the information. _"Unser_ general felt that you would be more comfortable in a slightly modified cut, rather than the regulation Luftwaffe suit. _Herr _Ostlinger was reputed to be good at altering patterns to personal tastes..." his voice trailed off as he realized that Burkhalter might take offense at the unintentional slight, but the portly general was nodding in agreement.

_"Ja,_ so he is," the senior officer agreed. "He is known for making non-regulation alterations appear to be within standards, and he had many influential clients in the past, so there is a certain prestige to be had, getting uniforms there. But there is no place in Germany for an attitude like his. We have just ended the fighting; we do not need to start again because of stupid insults."

"So, where do you suggest we go instead, General?" Hogan asked, curious now to see where they might be sent, and where Burkhalter himself would now go.

"Why, to his main rival, _Herr_ Strassl, of course," Burkhalter replied with no hesitation. "He is actually a better tailor; he just has not had quite as much...how would you say it? Ah, yes: Snob appeal. Come, I will show you; I will go there myself, now. And perhaps you will have fewer problems if I bring you there, than if you just show up."

"Yeah; I didn't get much of a chance to say that General Mannheim had sent us to the last place," Hogan complained, his good nature restored.

"It would not have done you any good; Ostlinger was already telling me all about it, although he did not mention your name, if he even knew about you. He would have thrown you out if Himmler himself had sent you."

"Although that's no recommendation, really," Hogan laughed at the general's attempt at levity. "Besides, it'd be kind of hard to do that from beyond the grave," he added; then he turned serious. "Why are you being so helpful, General? I know you hate my guts."

"Actually, Hogan, I have a grudging respect for you," Burkhalter admitted, just as seriously. "That was a dangerous path you took, and you hid your tracks well. If it had not been for Klink, I doubt you would have been as successful, but I do not believe you would have been stopped for long. Besides, I enjoyed seeing you frustrate Hochstetter the way you did. You kept him so busy chasing you and your men, he could do little other damage. So, you see, Hogan, you provided a needed service to our people, even though you did considerable damage to the military.

"I doubt we'll ever be friends, but..." Burkhalter paused, not certain if he had said too much.

Hogan just nodded. "No; we'll never be friends," he agreed. "I'll always be 'Hogan' to you, sir. Never first names. But better that than outright enemies. Besides," his eyes twinkled mischievously, "you might set your sister on me in that case."

A dry laugh was his answer. "You and Gertrude would kill each other in no time. I would not do that to either of you.

"Here is _Herr_ Strassl's shop."

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

The welcome was genuine, and Hogan felt that this would have been the case even if Burkhalter hadn't been there to smooth the way. He patiently waited until the General had made his needs known and had been seen to; then he steeled himself for a round with this tailor.

He found he needn't have worried; _Herr_ Strassl listened to what Weber had to say about General Mannheim's wishes, then turned to Hogan himself. "I can do as your general wishes quite easily, Hogan," the tailor declared calmly, his English very good. "What are _your_ wishes in this matter? After all, it is you who must wear these clothes."

Hogan thought about this, grateful for being consulted. "Actually, you won't have to modify the flight suits all that much," he decided. "Just give me a bit more room through the shoulders - across the back, actually - and I'll be fine. I could wish for something other than Wehrmacht gray, though." He paused to look over at Weber. "Do you think he'd mind terribly if I changed the color? I realize what he's trying to do, but..."

"I have a few other colors available," the tailor offered hesitantly, "but there is not that much choice. Blue-gray, gray, sand, white, dark blue, and black; that is all. And the sand is too light-weight for all year; it is meant for wear in _Afrika."_

"You could do them in black?" Hogan leaped at that option, for that was the color he favored, knowing it suited him.

"Hogan, _unser_ _General_ specified gray," Weber protested weakly.

"We could ask him, couldn't we?" Hogan cut him off. "I don't mind the other uniforms; they look good the way he wanted them. But these would look a lot better in black, and no one could possibly mistake me for Luftwaffe in them, either."

"But we need to get these done today," Karl argued, but already he could sense defeat. Hogan hadn't protested the other uniforms this way.

"How about we call him? They should be breaking for lunch by now, shouldn't they? How mad would he get at being interrupted, anyway?" The thought of irritating Mannheim gave Hogan pause---for all of ten seconds. "C'mon, Karl; I really think this will look better. What can it hurt? You can always blame me."

"All right, Hogan; enough. We will call him," the _leutnant_ finally capitulated wearily. "We will interrupt his meeting - his Important Meeting - to discuss the color of your clothing. Then _you_ can explain it to him tonight when he wishes to send _me_ east." But, in his heart, Weber doubted that the general would be too upset; he seemed to consider this brash American as some sort of amusing pet. Who knew but that perhaps he would welcome the interruption for such an inane detail.

Already Hogan was looking at cloth, talking quietly but enthusiastically with the tailor. Thick as thieves they were, Weber thought as he reached for Strassl's telephone.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

The meeting was not going well, and Mannheim could see tempers flaring on all sides of him. The disposition of the unwanted American-born POWs was a hot subject, very emotion-laden. After all, it was due to American intervention that Germany had lost the first World War; many had feared that they would interfere in this one, also. While the US as a whole had not done so, many individuals had come to fight, so now they had to have their fate decided. Not only did the Germans now have to deal with those being held here; there were many still in England who had not been captured. Great Britain, now conquered, did not want those unruly Americans there to cause trouble with the German overlords. So now Mannheim and his fellows had to decided how to deal with them.

Those free-roaming Americans could not be imprisoned for no cause; there were already too many captive Americans for whom Germany had to provide. Nor could they be executed out of hand; that could easily cause a war with the United States, despite the fact that those men had all been declared outlaws for not returning home in 1939. Intelligence had it that the American people were already being fed the lie that all the American POWs had been executed at the end of the war. Neither could they be ignored; not when the American POWs could not be turned loose.

The British Parliament, in their last official act before Germany had taken over the government, had repealed the citizenship of all the American-born people who had moved there and become British citizens, so _those_ POWs couldn't be sent back to England with the native-born repatriates. Additionally, the British politicians were dragging their feet over all the repatriates, both to _and_ from England.

And the men here at this table just got angrier and angrier, no one wanting to budge from his favored opinion and position.

«General Mannheim? A Call for you, sir.»

_"Was?!"_ he demanded angrily, incensed that someone would dare to interrupt this meeting, doubtless with some triviality that could, and _should,_ wait for a better time.

«A Call, Herr General.» The little blonde auxiliary private cringed, dreading the explosion of temper to come, but she was determined to do her duty. «He says he is your Aide. Something about someone named...Hogan?»

That stopped Mannheim in his tracks. Weber and Hogan both knew that this was an important meeting, if not what it was about, and they were out and about Berlin today. _Himmel_ only knew what might have happened. «I will take it in the outer Office,» he announced as he rose and left the conference room as fast as dignity allowed. _"Was ist los?"_ he then demanded of the poor, innocent telephone, concern overriding civility.

"Everything is all right, _mein General," _Weber hastened to reassure him, in English. "Hogan has a question for you. If you are too busy, if this is a bad time, it can wait..."

The sense of relief that flooded through him made Mannheim go weak in the knees. The girl at the desk hurried to pull a chair over to him, so pale had he gone, but his color suddenly turned an alarming shade of red, and then he started to laugh. "_Nein,_ Karl," he gasped. "You have pulled me out of a meeting gone sour with temper. It is probably just as well, for this gets me out and will let the others calm down. What does Hogan want? I thought I had all of his needs covered on that list I gave you."

"Well, he wants the color changed..."

"Here; let me speak to him," Hogan interrupted, reaching for the phone. Wordlessly, Weber handed it over, amazed still to have his head---no; shocked that the general had _laughed_ at being interrupted. What magic did Hogan command?

Conscious of all the listening ears, Hogan was careful to be polite. _"Mein General,_ I request a change of color for the flight suits. We can get a better price, and I will still be differenced from the Luftwaffe pilots and from free British and American ones."

_Ah,_ Mannheim thought to himself, _he spotted that purpose, did he? I must remember, in the future, that he is very sharp. _"What color did you desire?" he asked aloud.

"We can get a _very_ good price on black, _mein General,"_ Hogan explained, talking around the question. "It is a good wool serge, strong and warm; it was originally woven for SS use, but no one wants it now. And I look _good_ in black, _mein General."_ Yes, that got a chuckle out of him, Hogan noted with relief.

"Anything else, my economy-minded bondsman?" Mannheim asked dryly, fighting to control his laughter.

"Well, I can get a nice set of summer-weights in the sand-tone cotton the _Afrika Korps_ wear; they'd look good, too, with black trim." Which would also make them just enough different from those worn by _Afrika Korps_ pilots.

"You are impossible, Hogan." The general could hold it in no longer. "Go; have them made as you will; so long as it is Luftwaffe-cut, and not American. You _will_ wear a Luftwaffe flight cap, do you hear me? At least once you are outside my aircraft. You may fly in that disreputable brown thing you favor; I will even see if I can find you a new one. Will that suit you, Hogan?"

"How about a bomber-style jacket in black leather?" He couldn't keep that from popping out of his mouth, but Mannheim only laughed the harder.

_"Ja,_ that too. But you will have your old flight boots dyed black. I will only pay for _one_ new pair of boots for you, _versteh't?"_

_"Jawohl, mein General; ich verstehen,"_ Hogan responded, laughing himself.

"Go; enjoy your day. Eat if you have not; I will reimburse Weber for both of you. I will be late tonight, I fear. You can tell me of your adventures then, _ja?"_ It was almost like talking to a child, Mannheim realized in shock, an older child that he could relate to. He'd best not fall into _that_ trap, not with Hogan.

_"Jawohl, mein General,"_ Hogan repeated, thinking much the same thing, wondering if the German felt that way, also. _"Auf wiedersehn."_

Weber was staring at him in awe as he hung up the phone. "How did you _do_ that?" he wanted to know. "He was not even a little angry!"

"I don't know," Hogan shrugged. "He says I can have the black, and the sand for summer wear. And all the rest, plus he's going to get me a new crush cap." Now he even felt like a child, staring at a pile of presents under the tree at Christmas, knowing they were all for him. He gave himself a mental shake and went to bargain with the tailor.

Not long afterward, he found himself fitted for three sets of blacks, as he thought of them, and two sets of the summer-weight sand-tone. Both sets would be counter-trimmed: Black with sand-colored piping, and the sand with a lightweight black trim. At _pfennigs_ the yard, he bought five large bolts of the heavy black serge, all the tailor had in stock, knowing that the man needed to get rid of the cloth that no one wanted anymore, not even the civilians. It reminded people too much of times they'd all rather forget. Rob liked it, though, for it was well made. In addition, he figured that, if the General got someone else to be co-pilot for him, the cloth would be available for matching uniforms.

Weber laughed when he voiced this thought aloud, explaining that, at one time, one's status had been judged by how well his carriage-horses had been matched. This only made Hogan laugh harder.

What pleased the American most, however, was the fact that he'd paid for all of that cloth, and paid to have all his own flight suits made, out of his own money. It cost his "controller" nothing, and that had somehow become very important.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

"I'm not going anywhere else until after we eat," Rob said, in a voice that brooked no argument, once they were again outside on the now-crowded streets.

Truth be told, Karl found himself just as hungry. _"Ja,_ we can go eat now," he agreed. "There is not much more to be gotten, and it does grow late. We will go..."

"...to someplace you've always wanted to go, but could never afford," Hogan completed the sentence. "I've had too much prison food lately, and I want something special. Call it a celebration of life if you want, but I've got money right now, and I mean to spend some of it on needless luxuries, like great food. I'm sure you know someplace like that."

"Well, _ja,_" Weber slowly answered. "There was a place I went to once, with _mein general,_ but I did not get to eat there. It looked very good, even during the war. It was also very fancy."

"Let me guess: You didn't get to eat, 'cause you were dancing attendance on the general, right?" Weber's nod answered him sufficiently. "Okay; we'll go there. Is it far from here?"

_"Nein;_ not so far that we cannot walk."

"Will we need reservations, do you think?" Hogan fretted briefly. "Bet they give you a hard time over letting _me_ in---D'you think they'll even serve me?"

"Hogan, you worry for nothing," Weber chided his charge. "They will let you in _and_ serve you, for you are with me, you have your papers, and _alles ist en ordnung._ And we should not need reservations for a late lunch; only at dinner is it so crowded." He indicated direction and started walking; perforce, Hogan followed, careful not to jostle any of the passing Germans. Several seemed almost about to spit at him, only to reconsider and go on their respective ways with only muttered curses at his back. He couldn't help wondering if it would be any better if he'd been wearing one of his new uniforms, though he doubted it. Time was what was needed, for old hurts to heal somewhat. He could only imagine what attitudes would be like in the cities which had been heavily bombed, such as Hamburg. Berlin had been out of the range of most British bombers until late in the war.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

The men waiting around the table gaped as Mannheim returned to the conference room smiling. They had had time, during his absence, to compare notes, and for those in the know to inform the rest that the "Hogan" mentioned was one of the new bondsmen, a former POW and infamous saboteur and spy. Imaginations had run rampant over what had necessitated this phone call, considering the reputation of the man mentioned by that little receptionist.

But Mannheim just smiled at his waiting confederates as he seated himself. «All right; where were we?» he calmly asked, riffling through his notes.

«There was a Problem?"» Generaloberst Sigmund Meister, representing Abwehr, made bold to ask.

«Not really,» Mannheim answered absently, then looked up, chuckling. «Hogan - You know who he is, _ja? - _Well, he desired a change in the Color I'd selected for his Flight Suits. Most properly, he put forth his Reasons for my consideration - and amusement, I might add - before going ahead with the alteration.»

«Flight Suits? He disturbed your Meeting over his _Clothing?»_ Generalmajor Helmut Boffer, Internal Security, gasped, shocked almost beyond belief.

«Ach, you have to know Hogan to understand,» Mannheim chuckled again. «I imagine my poor Aide, Leutnant Weber, sweated Bullets before allowing that Call to be made. It was really quite heartless of me to send him out alone with Hogan today, but we really had to hammer all this out.»

«If that man is so dangerous...» Generaloberst Alfred Grafner of the Luftwaffe began, but he paused as Mannheim shook his head.

«He is no longer dangerous,» the latter explained, «but he has a wicked sense of Humor, and a Stubborn Streak that is unbelievable. Poor Weber wouldn't stand a Chance against him if he didn't choose to cooperate. Even the Gestapo at their worst couldn't break that Man.

«But, come: Hogan's Problem is solved, so we can return to ours, _nicht wahr?»_

«I believe that I would like to meet this Prodigal, who can tax you with trivialities and still have you smiling, Sebastian.» Field Marshall Ehrhart Berrer quietly remarked. «Is this possible?»

_«Ja,_ of course, _Herr_ Field Marshall,» a surprised Mannheim responded immediately. «I could bring him...»

_«Nein,_ there is no urgent Need. A social Visit is all that I had in mind,» Berrer quickly soothed his rattled junior.

«Ah. Well, then, we dine most Evenings in the Officers' Mess; perhaps you would care to join us there?» Mannheim cautiously offered.

«That would be ideal. Around 1900? Or is that too early?»

«That will be fine, _Herr_ Field Marshall. Provided, of course, that we can wrap up here. Of course, the rest would be welcome, also, _nicht wahr?_»

«Certainly all of you are invited to join us,» Berrer confirmed, speaking to the group as a whole now. «From what I have heard of this Man Hogan, it will be an entertaining Evening and not to be missed. But, as you say, we have Work to do. So, Gentlemen...»

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

The restaurant was busy, but there were available tables. The _maitre-d'_ _looked_ disapprovingly down his nose at Hogan, but he didn't demand to see his papers. The table to which he guided Weber and Hogan was in a back corner, dim and somewhat secluded by a large potted plant on a stand. The way he asked if this would be a satisfactory table left little room for hope that they would be offered better, so Weber sighed and agreed that, _ja,_ this would be fine. He looked apologetically at Hogan after the man had left, but the American just grinned at him. "That was actually better than I expected, Karl," he told his escort. "I mean, they haven't taken the silver off the table, or the good crystal, so they're not afraid that the barbarous..." He fell silent as a waiter approached, menus in hand.

«You can translate for the Englander, _ja, mein Herr?»_ the man asked Weber.

«There will be no Language Problems,» Weber assured him as the water glasses were filled; then the waiter withdrew.

"Hmm; good selection here," Hogan commented as he scanned the elegantly printed menu. "This'll be real beef, too; not horsemeat. Hope it's as good as it sounds."

"It should, at these prices!" Weber muttered unhappily, seeing a month's pay disappearing at one meal.

"Relax; this is my treat, remember?" Hogan absently said as he studied the menu further. "Even if it weren't, General Mannheim said he'd reimburse you for the meal when I spoke to him. We're actually under _orders_ to go eat somewhere, Karl."

"Maybe, but I doubt he had _this_ in mind when he told you that," the hot retort came quickly.

Hogan just grinned. "Come on, now, Karl; don't you think he knows me better than that? This is just the sort of place I'd go, given _carte blanche,_ and he knows it. My guess is, this is just what he expects. So relax and enjoy it; no telling when we'll get out like this again."

Weber muttered a bit more, but had his order ready by the time the waiter reappeared. The man had obviously expected the_ leutnant_ to order for the Englander colonel and was taken by surprise when Hogan ordered for himself in perfect German. They left him wondering just who the man in the RAF uniform was, Hogan grinning knowingly at his confusion.

The meal, once it had arrived and had been consumed, was definitely worth the outrageous prices, Hogan later decided as they left the place to finish their errands.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

They were at their last scheduled destination, a shop dealing in uniform accessories, and Hogan was at his worst. He didn't really like the forage cap he was supposed to wear, and the high-peaked hat for his dress uniform looked too stark without any device. He _wanted_ his old crush cap.

Weber was at his wits' end. Hogan had found gloves that fit with no trouble, and the appropriate belts had been added to the pile of goods. He had even agreed to two white silk flying scarves for the American, for he'd heard that most pilots who could afford them preferred to have them, for comfort's sake. But the American was fussing so over that blank cap... Then inspiration struck. "You are a pilot; why not put your pilot's wings on the hat?" he asked as Hogan was about to throw it down in disgust.

Hogan stopped in mid-tantrum, and the worried shopkeeper sighed in relief. "What?" the American asked, for he'd not clearly heard the suggestion.

"Wear your pilot's wings on your dress cap," Weber repeated, more pleased with the idea the longer he contemplated it. _"Unser general_ will not object, I am certain, for that is the main excuse he gave for taking you, Hogan. The cap badges indicate the wearer's branch of service, and you are a pilot; just not Luftwaffe." He fell silent, watching as Hogan fished a set of American wings out of his pocket and held them up to the front of the cap. He had to agree with Hogan's assessment, as the American's frown showed: those wings were too small. It had seemed like such a good solution...Suddenly, he reached for some Luftwaffe wings and held them out. "Try these, Rob; they are larger, and you do fly for Germany now, for _unser general."_

Wordlessly, Hogan reached out to accept the German pilots' wings. It still rankled just a bit, but, as he held them up against the cap, he had to agree that they would work. Slowly he nodded, then dredged up a grin for his escort. "That'll work just fine," he agreed, and chuckled to see Weber relax. "I'm a _real_ bear this afternoon, aren't I?" he asked, knowing the German wouldn't agree, even though it was the truth.

Weber's response was surprisingly diplomatic. "We are both tired, for it has been a long day," he told the American flyer. "We are nearly done with the list, though. Then we can go back to quarters and rest. There is an extra bunk in my quarters, as I have no roommate, so you need not return to your cell if you do not wish to."

Hogan was touched by the offer. "I'd have thought you'd be glad to be rid of me at last," he said, feeling rather like a heel for the fuss he'd just made.

But Weber was having none of it. "You have been under much stress lately; your life is turned upside-down, and you must hide your anger and disappointment, swallow them. That you have not objected more is nothing short of a miracle of control, I would say." Weber looked a little uncomfortable, but forced himself to continue. "I think that, under other conditions, I would have been proud to call you a friend, Hogan. Perhaps someday you will be able to think kindly of me in return.

"Come; is there anything else you think you may need? It grows late, and we will need to get back, to rest before dinner."

Old habit made Hogan glance at his wrist to confirm the time; he grimaced at the old watch which rode there now instead of his aviator's chronometer. "You know," he considered his words, "if I'm gonna be flying the General around Europe, I'm gonna need some good nav aids. A new chronometer, for starters. And logbooks, and a compass, and a plotter and charts, and other things, too. Tools and equipment no one here will be eager to sell to me."

"They have good watches here," Karl answered, looking over a nearby display. "We can ask where to obtain the other things you need. At worst, we can put those items on hold until we get the general's authorization. For you, he will give it; he approves of you."

"Yeah...Hey, this one's Swiss-made!" His attention was caught by the chronometers now. Pricey, yes, but he could easily afford it. Quality was never cheap, anyway, nor was safety. After careful consideration, he finally settled on a black and chrome one, insisting on paying for it himself. Matching luggage was added to his selections, including a hatbox and a boot-bag. The quality available here was excellent; no doubt the shopkeeper had heard Mannheim's name and rank mentioned and had brought out his best wares.

Aviator's tools would have to wait; they would have to go out to the airport district, and time did not allow that long a trip, even by cab. Delivery arrangements made, Hogan and Weber began their long, weary trek back to their quarters and a well-deserved rest.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

1730 hours. Sebastian Mannheim let himself into his quarters and stopped in shock, appalled at the pile of parcels heaped in the middle of his sitting-room floor, including a very nice set of matched luggage, with the initials REH monogrammed on each piece. He swallowed hard, once, estimating what the total bill for all this would come to, and sighed. He _had_ set Hogan loose, after all, and had imposed no limits. He _could_ afford this, for he usually lived rather frugally, considering his rank and pay-grade. Most of his pay was sent home to his wife, who lived just as simply. Hogan was expensive right now, but it would get better, he consoled himself. After all, he'd needed _everything,_ having been captured with nothing but the clothes on his back, now worn to little more than rags.

There was a knock at the door; it was a delivery boy, uniformed, carrying a garment bag. He accepted the bag and tipped the boy, then turned to the phone.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

_«_LeutnantWeber speaking..._Ja, __mein General...nein, mein General._He is here with me...Jawohl,mein General_;_ we will be there soonest. _Ende.»_

Hogan stretched wearily, grimacing as unaccustomed muscles protested the long day just past. His left shoulder itched miserably, too, but he knew he couldn't scratch or rub it. _"Was ist?"_ he asked as Karl set the receiver back down in its cradle.

_"Unser general_ is back," Karl answered, stifling his own yawn. "Your purchases are there, in his quarters; he wishes us to come remove them, then dress for dinner. We are expecting guests at mess tonight, it seems."

"Any idea who?" Hogan asked as he climbed from the bunk and reached for his shirt. "Be right back," he added, heading for the door and the latrine up the hallway.

Weber met him there, shaving kit in hand, at the sight of which Rob realized he probably needed a shave himself, if there would be company for dinner; bad enough that his British dress blues were a bit tattered. His shave would have to wait, though, until he returned to his cell.

--x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x----x--

It was 1750 hours when they presented themselves at General Mannheim's quarters, patiently waiting until he answered their knock. He waited until the outer door was closed before grinning at Hogan. "I see _you_ had a good day, at least."

"It was busy. Very busy," Hogan allowed, then grinned also. "Things improved once we got away from the hospital this morning, and that creep of a _doktor._" The trademark grin vanished, replaced by a black scowl at that memory. Quickly, Weber explained, describing in detail what he'd seen, heard, and said at the hospital, before Mannheim could demand a report. Soon the General wore a matching expression, and Weber didn't think he'd like to be in that _doktor's_ boots anytime soon.

Then, "What _is_ all this, Hogan?" Mannheim asked. "Did you buy out Berlin single-handed?"

"No, but I tried to," Rob quipped back, hoping to restore Mannheim's good mood before he had to confess his sins. Unfortunately, time was short, so he shrugged and took the plunge, drawing out his now-fat billfold. "Here, General; I have something to turn over to you. I promised _Leutnant_ Weber that I would," he admitted as he passed over a thick wad of Deutschmarks. He carefully did not mention the discreet fold of several hundred marks that he had tucked away earlier, against this time; hopefully, Mannheim would not demand an exact accounting, and he could keep it.

"Where did you get this, Hogan?" Mannheim's voice was flat, a tone that Hogan had never heard before from him. He could feel himself start to sweat.

"That came out of several hidden stashes, from the stuff in impound, _mein General._ We were there today to retrieve my jackboots, so you wouldn't have that needless expense. We got talking to the sergeant on duty there, and playing with the old uniforms, and, well, I forgot myself. I started looking through the old stuff, and got curious to see if our old escape funds were still there. I took about a third of it. _Leutnant_ Weber didn't find out about it until we were well away from Impound.

"I used those funds to pay for my flight suits and some extra bolts of the black cloth, against future need. I paid for our lunch with it. I bought the luggage and a good chronometer. Most of the rest is there, sir; I've held out 275 marks as mad money for myself.

"It was all obtained by...legitimately illegal methods, sir; none of it is the counterfeit stuff from Impound." He could hear Weber choking in the background, but he kept his attention centered on Mannheim, who, to Hogan's relief, could not seem to prevent one corner of his mouth from twitching.

"Perhaps you had best define 'legitimately illegal,' Hogan," came the dryly delivered demand. "This is a concept that I have never heard before."

"We got some from England; I guess they smuggled it in, or took it from downed flyers. A good bit of it came from the Underground in the early days. We robbed a bank once---you read about that one in my confession; we used it to pay a man for information he had for sale. Most of that was recovered by the authorities, though. A lot of our escape fund came from the poker games that Newkirk used to hold in the barracks. Those were really popular with the camp guards, especially right after payday. None of it was counterfeit, I'll swear to that, General."

"Now tell me why I should not shoot you for this breach of trust," Mannheim said, although even then he knew his anger was gone. This was just the way Hogan was; it would take time to change him - what parts _could_ be changed.

"General, I've had to be as crooked as a three-dollar bill these last two and a half years. I'm trying to be honest with you; I'm doing my best not to lie to you, about _anything._ It's just, some habits die hard. And it felt _so_ good, having money of my own, not to have you paying all my bills. I never thought myself overly prideful before this; I guess I'm finding out different now." He looked so sincere as he pronounced this, so downcast at having disappointed his patron, but Mannheim sensed that, given similar circumstances, Hogan would do the same thing. It was just his nature.

All he could do was shake his head and sigh. "Here, I believe this is one of your new uniforms, Hogan," he said, indicating the recently arrived garment bag. "Wear that tonight, instead of the British."

"It'll be undress, _mein General,"_ Hogan warned, even as he reached for the bag to check the contents. "Will they let me into the mess in that?"

"They will if I say so," Mannheim responded, but paused at the surprised look on his bondsman's face. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"Nothing's wrong, General," Hogan quickly assured him. "It's not my undress, though; it's one of the sets of blacks…uh, one of my winter flight suits. I was just surprised it's here so quickly; you know how late we were there." He started looking further through the pile of parcels, until he found a likely-looking bundle. As he pulled it from the stack, a sturdy envelope fell from the pile, a sturdy, military-grade, manila envelope, suitable for photographs. Company forgotten, Hogan dived for that, a huge smile lighting his face as he peeked inside. "Oh, _yeah!"_ he chortled, looking over at Mannheim with a truly wicked gleam in his eyes. _"Herr General,_ see how many of these men you recognize." He handed the envelope over and returned to the bulky parcel that should contain…yes, here was the greatcoat, and a complete undress uniform, badges all correctly sewn to the lower left sleeve.

Mannheim took the envelope and shook out the enclosed photographs. He could feel the color drain from his face as he gazed at the top photo. Oh, yes, he recognized this distinguished-looking, stern SS colonel - both from the party where they'd met, and the man under the makeup, now that he knew Hogan so well. He leafed through the rest, understanding now what Hogan had meant by "playing" with his old uniforms in Impound. Each man appeared to be someone different at first glance, and even a second one, but when he studied them more carefully, he could tell that each was still a photograph of Hogan. No wonder he'd never been caught!

Carefully, Mannheim replaced the photos in their envelope, but he set it aside rather than putting it away. He, too, could play games; he wondered how many of the men likely to come to dinner tonight had unwittingly met the young colonel during the war. This should liven the meal up even further, he thought as he suppressed his own chuckle of anticipated delight. Instead, he reached for the rejected garment bag to examine Hogan's idea of appropriate flight-suit design.

He stopped abruptly, his eye caught by the small pedestal clock on his sideboard. No time. "Rob, we will be late!" He snapped his gaze over to his bondsman. "And _you_ still need to shave and change! Go---Use my shaving kit; we must _not_ keep Field Marshall Berrer waiting! _Macht Schnell!"_

He couldn't help himself; Hogan jerked to attention, clicking his heels and snapping out a crisp, _"Jawohl, mein General!"_ Just like a proper little German, he sneered at himself even as he bolted for Mannheim's private bath, his new uniform clutched in his arms. Ten minutes later, he was out again, clean-shaven and changed, a new record even for him. Thank Heaven they'd brought his boots with them, he mused as he tugged the shiny leather up over his closely clad legs. He stood, then, for the General's inspection, actually feeling that he looked good in his new kit.

Mannheim clearly thought so, too, for he nodded in approval, his eyes warm, but he wasted no more time, shrugging into the greatcoat held for him by Lt. Weber, pulling on his gloves, settling his cap, and grabbing the envelope of photographs as his two men likewise donned coats, caps, and gloves. Together the trio hurried out, Weber holding the door for his general, Hogan at Mannheim's heels. The staff car was waiting just outside the building's entrance, and it was a welcome haven against the chill wind that now blew, whipping a bitter rain that carried the cold straight to one's bones. At least it wasn't snow.

Berlin was not a fun place to be in the winter, Hogan thought as he gazed out the car windows at the passing buildings. She was coming back to life, though, windows lit, now that the need for blackout curtains was over. People hurried down the streets, eager to escape the nasty weather and reach whatever diversion had been planned for the evening. The first flush of victory was long past by now; people were getting their lives back in order, settling into new routines.

The car pulled up outside the officer's club with less than five minutes to spare. This time, Hogan held the door as Mannheim slid from the staff car's spacious back seat; already the doorman was holding open the door into the club for them. They hurried up the steps, eager for their dinner now, and for the warmth and companionship to be found within.

_"Guten Abend, Herr General,"_ the club steward greeted them. «You are expected. The Trophy Room has been reserved for your Group tonight,» he told them, surprising Mannheim greatly. One had to have a good bit of influence to hold the Trophy Room for just a dinner group.

_"Danke, Klaus,"_ he replied, holding his curiosity in check only by the merest fingertips of control. The three men passed their coats and hats to the check-room orderly, then proceeded within.

«Ah, Sebastian; you are here. Very good,» called an older man, coming forward with outstretched hands in a warm welcome. Hogan remembered him from the trial, but did not know his name. «I see you've not killed him yet; has he made a good Aide, then?»

Several other high-ranking men laughed at this; obviously it had become a well-known joke among their circle. Mannheim colored slightly, but laughed good-naturedly nonetheless. «No; I've not killed him yet, though I _was_ sorely tempted tonight. Still, he's managed to redeem himself, so I will keep him for a while yet. At least he comes back when he's supposed to, which is more than I can say for my last Orderly.» More laughter greeted this statement as Mannheim's small group made their way further into the room.

Hogan tried not to squirm under the curious stares of the gathered Germans. He _wished_ he had his crush-cap. It was an odd thing to use as a security blanket, he reflected, but with that hat cocked at its rakish angle, he could face anything.

Some of them looked at him with more puzzlement, he noted; no doubt he'd met them somewhere.

"Well, Hogan, you look quite civilized in that."

He couldn't help starting, for the voice had come from right behind his left ear. He spun, then had to laugh at his reaction. "Hello again, General Burkhalter. So, you approve?" he asked, spreading his arms out in an attempt at self-mockery.

"As I said, _almost_ civilized," Burkhalter chuckled, in a vast good humor. "I nearly didn't recognize you. How did Sebastian manage to pry that disreputable hat of yours out of your keeping? I saw you coming in tonight without it."

"I still have it, you know," Hogan laughed, for clearly Burkhalter linked that hat with Hogan as closely as he did himself. "He just won't let me wear it for dress-up."

Now Burkhalter laughed openly, something Hogan couldn't remember ever having seen him do before. But the German was turning then, towards the _Generaloberst _he seemed to be with. «General, this is Hogan. Be careful, or he will steal you blind and make you think it was all your Idea the whole time.

«Hogan, I make you known to _Generaloberst_Grafner, Head of the Luftwaffe.»

_«Herr General_ Grafner, a Pleasure,» Hogan responded, clicking his heels and bowing his head respectfully. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mannheim looking around for him, a worried frown on his face which cleared momentarily as he spotted Hogan, then deepened when he saw who he was talking to. «If you would excuse me, _meine Herren,_ I believe General Mannheim has noticed me straying and wishes me where he can keep a closer Eye on me. It's not me he doesn't trust,» he elaborated with a grin, «but my Mouth.» With another polite nod, he was gone, leaving the two Germans laughing uproariously.

They had come to see Hogan, so he gave them a show, behaving at his most polite worst. And they knew it, too; they could easily see through his act, so no tempers got ruffled, no feelings hurt. All through dinner he managed to entertain them with his wit, although there were times he really felt the strain. Surprisingly, it was Burkhalter who came to his rescue then, for he'd had long experience of Hogan and could see clues in his behavior that Mannheim had not yet come to learn. _Leutnant _Weber watched in awe as Rob swam these deadly waters with seeming ease, not realizing how close to exploding the American came several times.

At last the meal was over, and all had settled into chairs near the large fireplace this room boasted. Hogan managed to remove himself from the limelight somewhat, to give himself a breather, and the officers turned their conversations to "light business" for a while as they enjoyed their after-dinner drinks and cigars. At last, Mannheim deemed the time right for what he'd come to think of as the _piece de resistance_ of the evening.

«Rob, pass these to Field Marshall Berrer and the others, if you would be so kind,» he said, just loudly enough to get everyone's attention. He'd expected perhaps a dozen officers at this gathering; to his shock, many more had come as word had spread. All the better, he now thought, ready to enjoy most thoroughly this bombshell.

Hogan accepted the photos, out of their envelope now, and hid a grin. He'd met most of these men during the war; it would be very interesting to see how they reacted.

«Gentlemen, see if you recognize any of the men in these pictures, please. They were just brought to my attention late this afternoon, so I thought that I would perhaps share them with you tonight.» Mannheim then settled back in his chair, waiting to see who, if any, would draw the connection between the pictures and his bondsman. He watched in anticipation as Hogan handed the photographs over to Berrer first, as instructed, then waited to pass them on to the next closest man. Most, however, weren't willing to wait, but rose to gather around whoever held some of the photos. Exclamations of recognition could be heard from time to time, as well as the occasional muttered name, but, predictably, it was Burkhalter who realized just _who_ was in all those pictures.

«Wait a Minute,» he ordered suddenly. «Let me see those last two Photographs again.» Carefully he compared them, one to the next, then looked up and studied Hogan just as closely, and laughed in delight. «I wish that Hochstetter could see these!» he chortled with evil glee. «He would have a foaming _Fit!_» He paused and looked around at his companions, chuckling harder. «Do you not all realize what you have there? These are all Pictures of _the same Man_: Hogan! »

Cries of consternation and denial filled the room, until all had examined the photos once more and could no longer reject the evidence of their eyes. Burkhalter looked consideringly at his former enemy. «You truly _are_ the most dangerous man in Germany, Hogan.»

«Not anymore - at least, not to Germany, General, » Hogan answered softly. «General Mannheim holds my Bond. _And_ all my Men, if my Word isn't enough for you. I've told more Lies in two and a half Years than one Man has a right to tell in a Lifetime, but this isn't one of them.»

«No; I believe you on that,» Burkhalter waved it away. «I was just wondering when these pictures were taken, and where. There seems to be…»

«Oh, sorry.» Hogan paused to collect himself, then grinned his infamous grin. «These were all taken today, General, shortly before we ran into you, in fact. We went to Impound to retrieve my boots…»


End file.
